THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


Ex  Libris 
C.  K.  OGDEN 


T 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

Microsoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/earlychildhoodOOmcmiiala 


BOOKS  ON  ELEMENTARY  AND  KINDERGARTEN  EDUCATION. 

BE  ALE    (A.   C).  THE  FROEBEL  PRIMER:   Reading  on  Natural 

Principles.     4to.  is.     Three  Wall  Sheets,  each  2s.  6d. ;  the  three 

unmounted,  3s.  6d. 
BULOW    (Baroness    Marenholtz).    THE    CHILD   AND    CHLLD 

NATURE.     8th  Edition.     3s. 

HAND-WORK  AND  HEAD-WORK.  3s. 

ESSAYS    ON   THE  KINDERGARTEN:   Ten  Lectures  read  before 

the  Froebel  Society.     Fourth  Edition.     3s. 
FRANKS  (Fanny).  THE  KINDERGARTEN  SYSTEM:  Its  Origin 

and    Development    as    seen    in    the    Life    of   Friedrich    Froebel. 

Adapted  from  the  work  of  A.  B.  Hanschmann.     5s. 
FROEBEL  (P.).  AUTOBIOGRAPHY.     Edited  by  E.  Michaelis  and 

H.  K.  Moore,  B.A.     Sixth  Edition.     3s. 

LETTERS.     By  the  same.     3s. 

GUIMPS  (R.  de).  THE  STUDENT'S  PESTALOZZI.  By  John 
Russell,  B.A.     is.  6d.  net. 

MAIR  (Mrs.).  ARITHMETIC  FOR  CHILDREN,     is. 
MALLESON   (Mrs.   F.).   NOTES    ON  THE  EARLY   TRAINING 
OF  CHILDREN.    Fourth  Edition,     is. 

MOORE  (H.K.).  THE  CHDLD'S  PIANOFORTE  BOOK.  Illustrated. 
5th  Edition.     3s.  6d. 

THE  CHILD'S  SONG  AND  GAME  BOOK.  3/6  net;   or  in 

4  pts.,  each  1/-. 

MULLEY   (Jane).    SONGS    AND    GAMES   FOR    OUR    LITTLE 

ONES.      Fourth  Edition,     is. 
PEABODY   (Elizab.   P.).  THE  HOME,  THE  KINDERGARTEN. 

AND  THE  PRIMARY  SCHOOL.    3s. 
PESTALOZZI    (J.    H.).    HOW    GERTRUDE    TEACHES    HER 

CHILDREN.     Translated  by  E.  Cooke.     3s.  6d. 

PULLAR  (A).  GEOMETRY  FOR  KINDERGARTEN  STUDENTS. 

499  Cuts.     3s. 

ROOPER  (W.  and  H).  ILLUSTRATED  MANUAL  OF  OBJECT 
LESSONS.     20  Blackboard  Illustrations.    Fifth  Edition.    3s.  6d. 

SHIRREFF  (Emily  A).  THE  KINDERGARTEN.  6th  Edition, 
is.  4d. 

SONNENSCHEIN  (A.).  NUMBER  PICTURES  FOR  THE  NUR- 
SERY, KINDERGARTEN,  AND  SCHOOL.  6th  Edition.  14 
Coloured  Sheets,  on  roller,  7s.  6d.  On  7  boards,  16s.  Model 
Lesson,  6d. 

SONNENSCHEIN  (Mrs.  E.  A.).  THE  ELEMENTS  OF  NUMBER. 

Part  I.   (1    to    10),   2d.  II.  (10  to  36),  2d.     V.  Compound  Rules, 
is.     Answers  to  Part  V.,  9d. 

SWAN  SONNENSCHEIN  &  Co.,  Limited,  LondonT 


■BOOKS  ON  THE  HISTORY  OF  EDUCATION. 

BREMNER  (0.  S).  THE  EDUCATION  OP  GIRLS  AND  WOMEN 
IN  GREAT  BRITAIN.    4s.  6d. 

COMPAYRti  (Prof.  G.).  THE  HISTORY  OF  PEDAGOGY.  Trans- 
lated by  Prof.  W.  H.  Payne.     4th  Edition.     6s. 

MARK  (H.  L.)-  OUTLINE  OF  THE  DEVELOPMENT  OF  EDUCA- 
TIONAL THEORIES  IN  ENGLAND.  2nd  Edition.    3/-. 

PSYCHOLOGY.     HERBARTIAN  BOOKS. 

HERB  ART  (J.  F.).  THE  SCIENCE  OF  EDUCATION.  4/6. 
LETTERS  AND  LECTURES  ON  EDUCATION.  4/6. 

THE  APPLICATION  OF  PSYCHOLOGY  TO  EDUCATION. 

46. 

INTRODUCTION  TO  HERBART.     By  H.  M.  and  E.  Ff.lkin.  4/6. 
INTRODUCTION    TO    THE    HERBARTIAN   PRINCIPLES    OF 
TEACHING.     By  C.  I.  Dodd.    4/6. 

MORAL  EDUCATION. 

BRYANT  (Sophie.  D.Sc).  SHORT  STCTDLES  IN  CHARACTER. 

4s.  6d. 
THE  TEACHING  OF  MORALITY  IN  THE  FAMILY  AND 

THE  SCHOOL.     2nd  Edition.     3s. 
THE  TEACHING  OF  CHRIST  ON  LIFE  AND  CONDUCT. 

2s.  6d. 
MATTHEWS  (H.  D).  A  DIALOGUE  ON  MORAL  EDUCATION. 

3s.  6d. 

MISCELLANEOUS  BOOKS. 

Gilchrist  Trust  Reports  on  Secondary  Education  in  America. 

(1.)  BRAMWELL  (A.  B.)  and  HUGHES  (H.  Millicent).  THE 
TRAINING  OF  TEACHERS     3s.  6d. 

(2.)  PAGE  (M.  H).  GRADED  SCHOOLS.    2s. 

(3.)  BURSTALL  (S.  A .).  THE  EDUCATION  OF  GIRLS.    3s.  6d. 

(4.)  ZIMMERN  (A).  METHODS  OF  TEACHING.    3s.  6d. 

PUBLIC  SCHOOLS  YEAR  BOOK.  Edited  by  Three  Public  School 
Men  (Eton,  Harrow,  and  Winchester).  Eleventh  Year  of  Publi- 
cation (1900).     2s.  6d. 

RICHTER  (Jean  Paul).  LEVANA:  or,  THE  DOCTRINE  OF 
EDUCATION.    3s. 

SONNENSCHEIN'S  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  EDUCATION.  With  copious 
Classified  Bibliography.  Third  Edition,  pp.  570.  Royal  8vo. 
7s.  6d. 

LINEAR   BLACKBOARD   MAPS :     Outline    Wall-Maps    with 

Blackboard  Surface,  rolling  up.  Adopted  by  the  London  and  all 
the  more  important  School  Boards.  England  and  Wales.  4  ft., 
9  in.  X  4  ft.,  16s.  Europe,  5  ft.  6  in.  X  4  ft.  6  in.,  21s.  Two 
Hemispheres,  21s. 

(A.)  SPECIMEN  LESSONS :  A  Contribution  to  a  Definition  of 

Good  Methods  of  Teaching,     is. 

SWAN  SONNENSCHEIN  &  Co.,  Limited,  London. 


EARLY    CHILDHOOD 


Children  of  the  Home. 


3^,    ^^31  V/ 


EARLY   CHILDHOOD 


v. 


BY 


MARGARET  MCMILLAN. 
ft) 


t\ 


WITH  FIVE  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


LONDON: 

SWAN   SONNENSCHEIN  &   Co.,   Limited 

Paternoster   Square 

1900 


LB 


DEDICATION. 


TO 

Mr.  Montagu  Blatchford,  Mr.  Robert  Blatchford, 

and  Mr.  Alexander  Thompson 

this  little  book  is  inscribed  with  much  esteem. 


PREFACE. 


Everyone  admits  that  we  are  living  in  an  age  of  great 
social  uneasiness. 

From  the  dark  places  of  cities  come  ominous  sounds  of 
Revolt  — the  Revolt  of  the  disinherited,  the  despairing.  In 
higher  grades  of  Society  revolt  is  more  decorous,  less  noisy, 
and  better  organized.  But  it  is  still  Revolt,  the  intelligent 
and  order-loving  artizan  combines  with  his  comrades — pays 
his  Union  money  and  regards  the  Trade-Union  itself  much 
as  the  patriot  regards  his  country.  It  is  something  to  defend, 
to  fight  for,  and  to  trust  in.  A  large  section  of  literary 
middle-class  people  sympathize  with  the  army  of  revolt. 
Opposite  these  is  the  hostile  camp.  Masters  combined,  sur- 
rounded by  free-labour  people,  and  sympathized  with  by 
philanthropists  who  are  pained  to  think  there  are  certain 
"dangerous  classes"  among  the  poor  who  cannot  be  reached 
by  soup  and  blankets. 

"No,"  retorts  a  voice  from  the  opposite  side,  "there  are 
no  dangerous^  classes  among  the  poor.  For  the  poor  have 
to  work  hard  and  to  fare  scantily,  and  where  the  water  runs 
fast  there  is  little  fear  that  it  carries  disease  and  death.  You 
are  the  dangerous  classes.  You  are  the  congested  centres  of 
Society  through  which  the  human  life-blood  creeps  sluggishly. 
You  sleep  in  sheltered  places— where  never  a  wind  of  anguish 
reaches  you.     You  are  dangerous. 

Within  the  nation  of  troubled  men  and  women  there  is 
another— of  untroubled  little  children.  Go  into  a  public  park 
on  any  fine  morning  and  you  may  see  the  nursling  of  some 
wealthy  home  eyeing  the  child  of  poverty  who  gambols  near 
him  on  the  grass.  Ah!  If  there  was  no  stately  nurse  in 
attendance  on  the  former  how  quickly  those  two  little  people 
would  strike  up  an  acquaintance  and  toddle  off  to  play  together. 


X  PREFACE. 

They  do  not  know  as  yet  what  a  gulf  yawns  between  them. 
But  they  feel  that  they  have  much  in  common,  and  that  it 
would  be  delightful  to  be  playfellows. 

As  yet  neither  has  been  baked— to  use  Carlyle's  expression — 
into  a  shape  which  one  can  reasonably  believe  to  be  dangerous. 
The  baby-eyes  are  still  bright  and  pure  as  sunny  water.  The 
two  children  might  toddle  off  together,  giving  each  other  a 
"butterfly  kiss"  with  cool  baby  lips.  How  comes  it  that  one 
or  other  is  baked  at  last  into  a  "dangerous"  person?  Why 
should  either  ever  become  dangerous?  How  do  they  drift 
so  far  apart  that  one  cannot  look  at  last  into  the  eyes  of 
the  other  without  envy  or  distrust?  There  will  always  be 
"dangerous"  classes  until  some  such  questions  are  asked,  not 
only  in  slums  and  dark  garrets,  but  in  luxurious  nurseries. 

This  little  book  deals  with  this  question,  for  it  deals  with 
primary  education.  In  one  or  two  places — as  in  the  Chapter 
on  Moral  Training— some  allusion  is  made  to  older  children. 
But  the  treatment  of  all  questions  relating  to  the  education 
of  older  children  is  left  to  other  pens.  At  the  age  of  twelve 
or  fourteen  there  may  be,  and  must  be  indeed,  a  parting  of 
the  way.  For  then  the  child  must  begin  to  receive— not 
Technical  training— but  such  instruction  as  will  probably  help 
him  later  when  he  makes  choice  of  a  career  or  trade.  In 
this  little  volume  the  teaching  of  Science  is  not  touched  upon. 
Art  teaching  is  dealt  with  only  in  so  far  as  it  concerns  the 
efforts  at  self-expressions,  and  movements  of  young  children. 
The  book  deals  only  with  questions  that  concern  the  opening 
years  of  life— the  years  when  impressions  are  received,  when 
impulses  are  strengthened  or  curbed,  when  the  sub-soil  of  the 
nature  is  made  rich  or  barren,  when  "dangerous"  elements 
strike  deep  root,  or  perish  in  obscurity. 

In  short,  it  deals  simply  and  only  with  questions  of  human 
education,  the  education  that  must  precede  every  kind  of 
secondary,  technical,  and  professional  education  whatsoever, 


CONTENTS. 

Chapter  Page 

I.    Education  in  the  Primary  School i 

II.    Impressions 9 

III.  Movements 27 

IV.  Arm  and  Manual  Training 34 

V.    Oral  Training 47 

VI.    Moral  Training 64 

VII.    Literature  and  Children 98 

VIII.    The  Feeble-Minded  Child 113 

IX.    The  Cost  of  Mental  Effort 138 

X.    Fatigue:  Normal  and  Abnormal 155 

XI.    Forecast  and  Retrospect 181 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS. 

Children  of  the  Home Frontispiece. 

A  Revolt after  Sir  E.  Landseer,  to  face  p.  jo. 

Early  Efforts „  40. 

Bi-Manual  Drawing „  44. 

Children  of  the  Street to  face  „  64. 


EARLY   CHILDHOOD. 


CHAPTER    I. 

EDUCATION   IN  THE   PRIMARY   SCHOOL. 

''The  strong  affection  for  progeny  becomes 
in  the  hands  of  nature  the  agent  of  a  double 
culture,  serving  at  once  to  fashion  parent  and 
child  into  the  desired  form.  And  beautiful  it 
is  to  see  how  the  most  powerful  instinct  is 
made  the  means  of  holding  men  under  a  dis- 
cipline to  which  nothing  else  perhaps  could 
make  them  submit." — Herbert  Spencer. 

We  are  to-day  in  the  midst  of  a  great  revival  of 
education.  Conferences  of  teachers,  committees  ap- 
pointed for  special  investigation  meet  daily.  Even  in 
the  matter  of  primary  education,  how  many  counsellors 
and  helpers  have  we  all  eager  to  do  something  in  the 
interest  of  the  small  John  Smith  whose  formal  education 
is  to  end  at  the  age  of  twelve  1  Think  of  the  Coun- 
cil of  Education,  the  School  Boards,  the  National 
Union  of  Teachers,  the  Society  for  the  Scientific  Study 
of  Childhood,  the  State  Children's  Aid  Association, 
etc.  Consider  the  rain  of  books,  pamphlets,  reports, 
notes,  observations,  illustrations  which  are  poured  daily 
on  the  head  of  any  School  Board  member  who  takes 


2  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

any  notice  of  one.  Yet  in  the  midst  of  all  this  busi- 
ness and  haste  the  persons  most  closely  concerned  in 
the  education  of  the  little  John  Smiths  of  England — to 
wit,  John's  own  father  and  mother — are  strangely 
indifferent,  indeed  apathetic. 

At  a  recent  School  Board  election  only  a  small 
percentage  of  the  London  populace  even  took  the 
trouble  to  vote.  In  the  provinces  there  is  a  like 
carelessness  on  the  question  of  the  election  of  per- 
sons to  offices  of  educational  responsibility.  The 
chapel-goer,  to  be  sure,  is  anxious  to  be  represented 
by  a  Nonconformist ;  and  the  staunch  churchman  wants 
to  see  the  vicar  on  the  Board,  feeling  sure  that  a 
university  education  and  church  principles  are  things 
to  "make  a  note  on."  But  the  questions  as  to  whether 
the  churchman  has  studied  child  life  as  well  as  Greek, 
or  whether  the  Nonconformist  knows  something,  not 
merely  about  theology,  but  about  the  growing  brain 
are  never  asked,  nor  even  suggested  at  any  gathering 
of  electing  ratepayers.  The  average  parent  is  still  of 
opinion  that  the  education  of  his  child  is  a  thing  that 
concerns  other  people  rather  than  himself,  and  that 
those  people  who  undertake  the  direction  of  it  are 
qualified  for  the  task  by  Greek  and  Latin,  or  even  by 
mere  dissent. 

Not   but   that  the   average  parent  has  some  strong 


EDUCATION  IN  THE  PRIMARY  SCHOOL.  3 

convictions  on  the  subject.  Perhaps  the  strongest  of 
these  is  concerned  with  the  duration  of  his  child's 
school  life.  He  feels  that  it  ought  not  to  be  prolonged 
beyond  the  age  of  thirteen.  Of  the  millions  of  little 
ones  attending  our  elementary  schools  only  a  small 
proportion  go  forward  to  the  secondary  schools.  Few, 
very  few,  ever  pass  into  the  higher  grade,  and  spend 
a  year  or  two  in  an  organised  elementary  science 
school.  In  Bradford,  for  example,  where  the  first 
higher  grade  school  in  England  was  opened,  only  626 
children  out  of  26,992  attending  the  ordinary  primary 
schools  in  1894,  have  prolonged  their  school  days 
beyond  the  age  of  thirteen.  Fifty  years  ago  education 
was  not  so  diffused  as  it  now  is  in  Scotland.  Yet,  as 
a  recent  writer — Mr.  Graham  Balfour — has  remarked, 
it  is  probable  that  in  proportion  to  the  population 
there  is  to-day  a  smaller  number  of  learned  persons 
in  Scotland  than  formerly.  Knowledge  is  increased, 
but  the  hunger  for  it  is  diminished.  If  we  turn  to 
other  countries  we  find  the  same  suggestive  fact  staring 
us  in  the  face.  In  1832,  of  all  the  children  in  the 
primary  schools  of  Prussia,  9.6  per  cent  passed  on  to 
the  secondary.  In  1864,  notwithstanding  the  spread 
of  primary  education,  only  8.6  continued  their  educa- 
tion on  leaving  the  primary  school.  It  is  not  the 
parent  of  the  Lancashire  half-timer  alone  who  says  of 


4  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

his  child's  school  days  continually,  "Would  they 
were  done ! " 

Millions  of  well  meaning  and  intelligent  fathers  and 
mothers  are  eager  to  withdraw  their  boys  and  girls 
from  school  just  at  the  age  when  they  might  begin 
to  profit  largely  from  instruction. 

The  hunger  for  knowledge  is  often  stilled  then  in 
the  elementary  class-room. 

"Never  mind,"  cries  the  moralist,  "so  long  as  the 
love  of  righteousness  is  awakened  there!" 

Yes.  But  is  the  love  of  righteousness  awakened 
very  strongly  in  the  ordinary  class-room  ?  No  one 
can  claim  that  it  is.  Thirty  years  ago  people  in- 
dulged brave  hopes!  "We  are  opening  a  great  many 
new  schools,"  they  cried.  "  Soon,  an  enlightened 
generation  of  young  people  will  troop  forth  from 
them,  and  fill  the  earth  with  joy  and  beauty."  This 
hope  was  beautiful,  but  it  was  quite  vain.  According 
to  Mr.  Wm.  Douglas  Morrison,  the  returns  of  the 
English  Judicial  Statistics  for  1893,  as  far  as  they 
are  of  any  value  at  all,  show  that  the  number  of 
juvenile  offenders  has  increased  rather  than  diminished 
during  the  last  thirty  years.  The  number  of  charit- 
able institutions  has  increased.  The  desire  to  help 
and  save  the  young  grows  strong  and  stronger.  But 
the  power  to  save  lingers!     Though  the  juvenile  po- 


EDUCATION  IN  THE  PRIMARY  SCHOOL.  5 

pulation  of  the  English  prisons  has  decreased,  the 
results  do  not  show  that  the  number  of  young  crimi- 
nals has  fallen.  Alas  I  And  Lancashire,  which  shows 
the  lowest  percentage  of  pauperism  in  England,  has 
the  highest  ratio  of  juvenile  crime.  The  young  people 
learn  fast,  and  pass  many  examinations.  But  this 
does  not  mean  that  they  abhor  evil.  They  use  their 
abilities  and  knowledge  in  disastrous  ways.  The 
criminal  adorns  his  room  with  an  awful  kind  of  art, 
and  writes  powerful  prose.  He  is  a  splendid  draughts- 
man, and  he  has  a  literary  style  which  is  bound 
to  attract. 

"At  least  our  children  are  strong,"  cries  the  optimist. 
But  this  too  is  a  delusion.  Axel-Key  found  that 
one-third  of  all  the  children  he  examined  in  Den- 
mark, Sweden,  and  Belgium  suffered  from  chronic 
diseases.  Thirteen  per  cent  were  pallid.  Dr.  Crichton 
Brown  found  that  52  per  cent  of  the  girls  in  the 
London  Schools  and  40  per  cent  of  the  boys  suffered 
from  headache.  Then  the  "nervous"  child  is  to  be 
found  everywhere.  Dr.  Francis  Warner  has  described 
him.  "  He  is  apt  to  complain  of  headaches,  is  diffi- 
cult to  get  off  to  sleep,  talking  at  nights  and  grinding 
his  teeth,  while  in  the  morning  he  is  tired  and  not 
ready  for  breakfast. 

"  He  is  often  bright  enough  mentally,  and  affectionate 


6  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

in  disposition,  but  apt  to  be  irritable  and  passionate 
and  too  emotional.  There  are  children  who  are  delicate 
without  having  any  disease,  who  are  never  laid  up  with 
any  definite  illness;  but  they  are  not  strong,  cannot 
walk  far  without  getting  tired.  On  some  days  they  are 
too  tired  to  do  anything,  and  must  rest;  capricious  in 
appetite,  yet  sometimes  ravenous,  but  losing  weight. . . 
In  the  nerve  signs  we  see  indications  of  weakness  and 
over  spontaneity." 

This  child's  name  is  Legion.  Here  is  a  girl  who 
flushes  suddenly  and  trembles  as  you  look  at  her. 
What  is  the  matter?  Is  she  in  terrible  distress?  Yes. 
And  why  ?  She  cannot  do  her  sum  1  Here  is  a  boy 
who  is  suddenly  overwhelmed  with  shame  and  confusion 
and  resorts  to  lying.  Why?  Because  he  has  a  brutal 
master  and  feels  he  will  be  punished  ?  Not  at  all.  The 
master  is  as  patient  as  Job  and  has  never  shown  him 
anything  but  kindness.  The  child  is  not  afraid  of 
him — but  of  everything.  Every  trifle  agitates  his  un- 
stable nervous  system.  And  so  many  grown-up  persons 
are  like  him.  From  the  book  of  a  modern  philosophical 
doctor  a  list  of  diseases  common  to-day  may  be  given 
— diseases  which  all  mean  weakness — weakness  betray- 
ed in  fear. 

Agoraphobia  (fear  of  open  places),  claustrophobia 
(fear  of  closed  places),  monophobia  (fear  of  being  alone), 


EDUCATION  IN  THE  PRIMARY  SCHOOL.  7 

anthrophobia  (fear  of  heights),  bataphobia  (fear  of  pins), 
zoophobia  (fear  of  animals,  such  as  mice,  spiders  etc. — 
a  disease  common  to  women),  pathophobia  (fear  of 
getting  diseases),  photophobia  (fear  of  fear  itself),  and 
pantaphobia  (fear  of  everything). 

The  causes  of  all  this  instability — moral,  mental  and 
physical — are  not  to  be  laid  at  the  door  of  the  school. 
They  are  found  in  the  subtle  and  rapid  changes  which 
have  taken  place  in  our  social  life. 

Rut  if  the  primary  teacher  cannot  be  blamed  for 
the  growing  instability  of  instructed  persons,  he  must 
acknowledge  that  he  has  new  responsibilities.  He 
cannot  remove  the  new  and  disturbing  factors  in  life. 
The  task  is  a  higher  one  than  that  of  removal.  He 
has  to  master  the  new  conditions  and  to  harmonise 
them.  He  must  be  more  than  his  predecessor  was. 
More  than  a  pedagogue,  more  than  a  literary  man, 
more  than  an  instructor.  He  must  be  a  physiologist 
par  excellence. 

But  as  yet  the  physiologist  plays  no  very  pro- 
minent part  in  the  annals  of  pedagogy.  (To  be 
sure  a  Board  here  and  there  has  engaged  a  doctor. 
But  the  doctor's  main  function  is  to  cure  the  children 
who  are  ill,  not  to  study  the  children  who  are  well 
or  fairly  well.)  And  the  average  parent,  doubtful  as 
to   the   value   of  formal   and  literary  education,  takes 


8  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

his  children  away  from  school  as  soon  as  possible. 
After  all  the  average  parent  is  right  in  a  sense. 
Children  are  educated  mainly  through  impressions  and 
movements.  In  the  old  days  (of  which  he  preserves 
the  half-comprehended  tradition)  these  were  amply 
supplied  in  the  learning  of  trades  and  crafts.  But 
now  the  line  of  division  between  thinker  and  manual 
labourer  is  sharp.  The  latter  as  well  as  the  former 
has  opportunity  for  thought,  and  perhaps  thinks  more 
than  his  father  did,  but  his  daily  task  is  one  from 
which  he  draws  few  impressions,  and  which  requires 
of  him,  not  varied  and  new,  but  only  montonous  and 
familiar  movements. 


CHAPTER    II. 


IMPRESSIONS. 


IMPRESSIONS  begin  with  life.  Capacity  for  receiv- 
ing impressions  may  be  said  to  constitute  life,  for  the 
living  thing  is  distinguished  from  the  non-living  mainly 
through  its  power  of  response.  In  his  pre-natal  life 
the  child  is  sensitive.  What  his  mother  hears,  feels, 
enjoys  or  suffers  affects  him  powerfully.  And  at 
birth  he  is  distinguished  from  lower  animals  by  the 
extraordinary  susceptibility  of  the  richly  innervated 
skin,  the  nerve  endings  in  which  are,  of  course,  points 
of  departure  for  innumerable  nerve  currents.  The 
first  contacts  are  therefore  terrible.  Round  the  jsen- 
sitive  body  the  air  (a  new  strange  element)  sweeps 
mercilessly  — assailing  every  part  of  the  surface  and 
pouring  its  torrents  into  the  delicate  tissues  of  the 
lungs.  Light  smites  the  blind  eyes.  In  short,  a 
tumult  of  sudden  and  painful  impressions  thrill 
through  the  tender  organism,  and  it  is  not  wonderful 
that,  in  spite  of  the  many  beneficent  provisions 
attending  birth,  a  large  number  of  infants  die  on  their 
first   day.     But   the  child  who  survives  begins  almost 


io  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

at  once  to  have  compensatory  experiences.  Thus  the 
anguish  of  contact  with  a  new  and  chill  element  is 
followed  by  delightful  sensations  of  warmth  in  the 
bath  or  cradle,  of  freshness  and  well-being  in  the  fresh 
open  air.  The  sudden  smiting  of  the  blind  eyes  does 
not  blind  after  all  (save,  of  course,  in  cases  where  the 
nurse  is  careless  or  the  organ  of  vision  hopelessly 
imperfect  or  diseased).  The  terrible  visitant  is  a 
friend — the  most  beautiful  friend  of  all  —  light  1  With- 
in the  child  there  is  something  that  responds  marvel- 
lously to  its  influence.  At  an  early  age  "the  appe- 
tite for  light"  is  awakened,  and  the  little  one  will 
laugh  and  crow  when  brought  out  into  the  sunshine. 
These  keener  joys  as  well  as  pains  depend,  of  course, 
on  susceptibility.  And  this  susceptibility  is  most  strik- 
ingly present  at  first  in  the  skin.  Lower  animals  have 
not  a  skin — they  have  a  hide.  They  are  hide-bound. 
But  the  human  infant  organism,  open  by  myriad  doors 
of  access  to  the  outer  world,  is  capable  of  receiving 
ineffable  and  terrible  baptisms.  And  every  tradition 
of  baptism,  whether  Pagan  or  Christian,  whether  of 
Thetis  plunging  the  infant  Achilles  in  the  water,  of 
Demeter  laying  her  nursling  in  the  red  strength  of 
the  fire,  or  of  the  apostles  and  messiahs  going  down 
into  the  water  ere  they  began  their  ministry,  bears 
evidence    of  a   consciousness   in    man   that  in  himself 


IMPRESSIONS.  ii 

the  animal  is  unbound  and  laid  open  to  the  rain  of 
new  influences. 

Everything  ensures  the  permanence  of  the  early 
impressions.  They  are  received,  not  through  the  finer 
and  as  yet  undifferentiated  parts  of  the  nervous  system, 
but  through  the  sympathetic  system,  with  its  wide 
channels,  its  central  ganglions.  During  the  first  months, 
too,  the  arterial  system  is  large  in  proportion  to  the 
rest  of  the  body.  The  living  cells,  while  building  up 
the  pabulum  or  food-stuffs  into  their  own  substance, 
ever  respond  to  the  influences  that  play  on  them  like 
breezes  on  a  lake,  but  they  respond  in  a  peculiarly 
effective  way  during  the  earlier  months  and  years. 
Occasionally  we  are  reminded  of  the  permanent  char- 
acter of  these  records  by  dim  recollections  and  emo- 
tions awakened  in  us  we  know  not  how  or  why.  The 
perfume  of  a  flower,  the  tone  of  a  voice,  the  sight  of 
a  face  or  of  a  scene  which  we  cannot  remember  to 
have  visited  fills  us  with  vague  delight  or  tenderness. 
The  origin  of  these  mysterious  emotions  lies  deep- 
rooted  in  the  sub-conscious  life — the  life  we  lived  when 
as  feeble  recipients  we  accepted  the  impressions  which 
flowed  in  on  us  from  every  side  and  left  their  traces 
in  us  for  ever. 

Very  early  the  child  begins  more  or  less  consciously 
to  exercise  the  basal  sense — the  sense  of  touch.     On 


12  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

waking  from  sleep  he  puts  out  his  tiny  hands  to 
grasp  something,  or  turns  his  head  on  the  firm,  soft 
pillow.  He  touches  rather  than  looks,  at  first,  (for  his 
hands  and  fingers  perform  a  great  many  movements 
long  before  he  learns  to  turn  his  eye-balls  in  various 
directions  or  follow  the  passage  even  of  a  light,) 
and  through  touching  many  things  he  begins  his 
education.  If  he  is  the  nursling  of  wealthy  parents, 
it  is  possible  that  his  first  exercises  are  rather  restricted. 
He  touches  silk,  ivory,  muslin  and  fine  linen.  That 
is  all,  and  that  is  not  much.  But  the  child  of  the 
cottager  is  often  better  off,  for  his  mother  gives  him 
a  great  variety  of  objects  to  keep  him  quiet.  The 
ridiculous  command,  "Do  not  touch,"  cannot  be  im- 
posed on  him  while  he  is  screaming  in  his  cradle  or 
protesting  in  his  dinner-chair;  and  so  all  manner  of 
things — reels,  rings,  boxes,  tins — that  is  to  say,  a 
variety  of  surfaces  is  offered  to  him,  to  his  great 
delight  and  advantage.  And  lest  he  should  not  get 
the  full  benefit  of  such  privileges  he  carries  everything 
to  his  mouth,  where  the  sense  of  touch  is  very  keen. 
Other  doors  of  sense  are  ajar.  Blind  at  first  and 
deaf  (though  capable  of  suffering  through  the  organ 
of  vision  and  hearing  from  the  first),  the  young  child 
begins  to  hear  and  to  see.  At  the  end  of  the  first 
week  a  sudden  light  brought  near  his  face  will  cause 


IMPRESSIONS.  13 

him  to  close  his  eyes.  Before  the  end  of  the  second 
week  he  trembles  at  any  loud  noise,  and  within  the 
first  month  perceives  many  sounds.  He  hears  then 
and  sees.  But  how  does  he  hear  and  see?  Not  like 
the  grown-up  person,  certainly,  or  even  like  the  child 
in  the  infant  school.  He  differs  from  them  notably 
in  this,  that  he  distinguishes  little  or  not  at  all.  The 
growing  power  to  distinguish  constitutes  progress,  and 
progress  may  be  immense.  For  example,  the  expe- 
rienced musician  can  discern  intervals  of  T i$th  °f  a 
tone.  The  infant  cannot  at  first  distinguish  even  his 
mother's  voice  1  The  painter  sees  innumerable  tones 
and  demi-tones  of  colour  to  which  the  untrained  man 
is  blind.  The  infant  cannot  even  discern  red  from 
yellow,  much  less  grey  from  blue,  or  blue  from  green ! 
He  lies  like  a  larva,  choosing  nothing,  refusing  nothing. 
He  absorbs  impressions  even  while  he  is  asleep,  for 
the  nerve  cells  are  never  quite  irresponsive,  never  rigid, 
save  in  death.  And  from  this  dim  sea  of  sub-con- 
scious life  his  feeble  and  wavering  consciousness  at 
last  arises. 

How  much  he  forgets  1  At  the  age  of  thirty  he  will 
not  recall  the  first  year  of  life  and  its  experiences  at 
all.  Yet  in  him  how  much  is  remembered!  What 
continuous  living  registration  is  taking  place  in  the 
secret  and  hidden  parts !  The  finer  tissues  of  the  brain 


14  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

are  like  a  parchment  on  which  the  writing  grows  dim, 
but  from  which  no  letter  can  ever  be  erased! 

Here  is  an  extract  from  Mr.  Louis  Waldstein's  work, 
"The  Sub-Conscious."  The  life  of  Miss  Keller  offers 
many  a  forcible  illustration  of  the  lasting  effects  of 
early  experience,  and  she  has  helped  to  throw  much 
light  on  this  obscure  subject: 

"The  serious  illness  that  threatened  the  life  of  Miss 
Helen  Keller  left  her,  a  child  of  nineteen  months  old, 
with  only  those  organs  of  sense  unimpaired  which 
we  are  accustomed  to  regard  as  the  lower  senses  of 
man — those  of  touch,  of  taste,  and  of  smell.  Her 
high  degree  of  intelligence  to-day  must  have  been 
entirely  formed  by  impressions  received  through  them, 
and  by  those  that  date  back  into  babyhood  . .  .  She 
has  a  centre  for  musical  impressions  through  the  sen- 
sations of  touch,  just  as  we  have  one  for  the  same 
order  of  impressions,  with  the  important  difference 
that  ours  is  connected  with  the  ear,  while  Helen 
Keller's  is  connected  with  the  nerve-endings  in  the  skin 
and  muscles.  Were  it  possible  to  recall  true  aural 
impressions  in  her  case  through  the  medium  of  touch, 
it  would  not  only  prove  the  force  of  sub-conscious 
impressions,  but  would  suggest  the  interesting  question 
whether  in  such  cases  a  connection  is  not  established 
between   the   one   centre,   that    of   hearing,    and    the 


IMPRESSIONS.  15 

other,   that   of  touch,  and  thus  create  a  new  kind  of 
mental  process. 

"  With  this  purpose  in  view,  I  wrote  to  Mrs.  Keller, 
who  kindly  sent  me  the  titles  of  two  plantation  songs, 
which  were  commonly  sung  in  her  home  in  Alabama 
when  Helen  was  a  baby,  but  are  not  now  generally 
sung — which  I  could  procure  only  in  manuscript  from 
the  South.  These  tunes  I  had  played  upon  the  piano 
while  she  stood  beside  the  instrument  with  her  fingers 
resting  upon  its  wooden  frame.  Care  was  taken,  of 
course,  that  she  should  know  nothing  of  my  intentions, 
and  that  she  should  be  taken  unawares.  The  effect 
was  striking.  The  young  woman  became  greatly  ex- 
cited, laughed  and  clapped  her  hands  after  the  first 
few  bars  of  '  Way  Down  in  the  Meadow  a-Mowing  of 
the  Hay.'  '  Father  carrying  baby  up  and  down,  swing- 
ing her  on  his  knee.  Black  Crow !  Black  Crow  I ' 
she  exclaimed  repeatedly.  On  hearing  the  second 
song,  '  The  Ten  Foolish  Virgins,'  the  same  effect  was 
produced.  It  was  evident  to  all  those  who  were  present 
that  the  young  lady  was  carried  back  to  her  early 
surroundings,  even  into  the  time  when  she  was  carried 
about  by  her  father ;  but  we  could  not  find  a  meaning 
for  the  words  'Black  Crow.'  I  considered  it  prudent 
not  to  question  her,  but  applied  by  letter  to  her 
mother,  who  was  kind  enough  to  send  an  early  reply. 


16  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

Mrs.  Keller  said:  'The  "Black  Crow"  is  her  father's 
standard  song,  which  he  sings  to  all  his  children  as 
soon  as  they  can  sit  on  his  knee.  It  was  a  sovereign 
remedy  for  putting  them  in  good  humour,  and  was 
sung  to  Helen  hundreds  of  times.  It  is  possible  that 
she  remembers  it  from  its  being  sung  to  the  two 
younger  children  as  well  as  to  herself.  The  other 
two  I  am  convinced  she  has  no  association  with  un- 
less she  can  remember  them  as  she  heard  them  before 
her  illness' — that  is  to  say,  before  she  was  nineteen 
months  old." 

Of  course,  Helen  Keller  could  not  remember  in  the 
sense  of  recalling  all  that  she  experienced  when  she 
was  six,  ten,  or  even  eighteen  months  old.  What  had 
happened?  Probably  this.  Certain  nerve  cells  allied  to 
the  organs  of  vision  and  hearing  had  been  stimulated  in 
infancy  and  responded  to  this  stimulus  in  what  may 
be  called  their  own  language.  Later,  the  organs  cor- 
responding to  them  were  closed  and  darkened.  The 
child  became  deaf  and  blind — the  nerve  cells  corre- 
sponding to  the  senses  of  sight  and  hearing  were  no 
more  exercised  or  developed.  Yet  the  record  of  their 
short  period  of  activity  was  not  lost.  It  was  preserved ; 
and  it  entered,  doubtless,  as  a  factor  in  the  subsequent 
mental  development  of  this  wonderful  and  charming  girl. 

Poverty  of  experience  or  impressions  — whether  from 


IMPRESSIONS.  17 

the  closure  of  any  gate  or  sense,  or  through  any  other 
cause — induces  a  permanent  and  irremediable  weakness 
in  the  mental  life  of  the  most  highly  endowed.  If 
Mozart  had  been  born  stone  deaf,  we  should  never 
have  heard  of  him  as  a  musician.  If  Raphael  had 
been  brought  up  in  the  dark,  his  natural  powers  as 
a  painter  would  not  have  unfolded.  Just  as  a  child 
grows  in  sleep,  so  for  months  and  even  years  he  is 
educated  in  ignorance — in  unconsciousness.  There 
comes  a  time  at  last  when  the  unconscious  life  be- 
comes conscious — sometimes  with  apparent  suddenness. 
One  day  a  vivid  impression  is  received.  Then  from 
the  shadowy  background  of  forgetfulness  a  clear  pic- 
ture starts  forth  which  is  henceforth  unforgettable. 
"  Much  of  what  follows  fades,"  writes  Olive  Schreiner, 
"  but  the  colours  of  those  baby  pictures  are  perma- 
nent." 

Nearly  every  grown-up  person  sees  some  such  bright- 
tinted  picture  at  the  horizon  of  his  conscious  life.  On 
some  long-gone-by  day  while  he  was  a  toddling  little 
child,  or  perhaps  still  in  his  nurse's  arms,  he  gazed 
on  something — a  sunset,  a  snow-storm,  a  toy,  an  organ- 
grinder,  a  horse  fallen  in  the  street.  He  gazes  at 
one  or  other  of  these,  and  the  deep  impression  made 
on  him  awakens  him  into  a  deeper  life. 

Henceforward   the   world   is   a  new  place.     He  not 

2 


18  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

only  remembers  the  toy,  or  the  sunset  all  his  life 
long,  but  these  become  for  him  a  new  starting-point. 
He  feels  a  new  emotion  henceforth  when  he  touches 
and  examines  the  objects  which  attract  him.  Here, 
for  instance,  is  a  little  fellow  who,  seated  on  the  carpet, 
is  taking  a  clock  to  pieces.  Every  new  success  in 
the  destructive  process  of  taking  the  works  to  pieces 
gives  him  great  joy.  The  bright  colour  of  the  case 
charms  him.  He  looks,  touches,  examines,  is  absorbed. 
Now  and  then  you  may  see  the  diaphragm  fall  and  the 
breathing  deepen — signs  of  deep  satisfaction.  The  face 
is  calm,  satisfied,  and  full  of  wonder.  Let  us  hope  that 
he  will  not  be  punished  for  adopting  the  best  educa- 
tional methods.  For  who  can  doubt  that  this  child 
is  being  educated?  His  powers  are  literally  being 
drawn  out  by  the  new  contacts,  colours,  mechanism, 
movements  and  the  emotion  produced  by  these. 

No  formal  lesson  can  take  the  place  of  such  invol- 
untary culture.  The  child  feels  emotion — a  real  stirring 
of  the  youthful  heart.  He  is  not  called  upon  to  reason 
about  what  he  feels — he  is  allowed  to  feel.  The 
process  of  reasoning  is  going  forward,  up-borne  by 
emotion.  But  emotion  is  the  well-spring.  Without 
it  the  world  is  dead  to  the  child.  Nothing  would 
summon  him.     And  now  he  is  summoned ! 

Sweeter  than  anything  in  life,  perhaps,  is  that  first 


IMPRESSIONS.  19 

whispering,  that  first  wonderful  message,  "Here  is  a 
beautiful  book  thy  Father  has  written  for  thee."  It 
comes  to  almost  every  child.  Yet  not  every  child, 
not  many  children  are  allowed  to  listen  in  peace. 
Thirty  years  ago  Seguin  wrote :  "  There  are  compar- 
atively few  who,  allowed  to  touch  the  things  around 
them,  emerge  from  this  baptism  of  emotion  poets, 
painters,  savants — in  a  word,  veritable  interpreters  of 
Mother  Nature,  having  learned  one  of  her  languages." 
And  this  is  true,  even  now,  in  the  day  of  kinder- 
gartens I 

"But  surely  a  young  child  cannot  choose  for  him- 
self or  know  what  is  best,"  the  mother  may  object. 
No  ;  he  does  not  select ;  he  does  not  reason.  He  only 
feels.  But  feeling  is,  after  all,  the  great  guide  whom 
we  have  had  to  trust  in  many  an  advance.  The  little 
one  who  is  allowed  to  look,  listen,  and  touch  freely 
does  not  distinguish  nor  choose  much.  But  just  as 
a  child  who,  rebelling  against  sleep  up  to  the  last 
moment,  is  yet  claimed  by  sleep  at  last,  so  a  child, 
free  and  occupied,  choosing  nothing,  is  yet  himself 
chosen  as  it  were  by  the  things  which  he  chooses. 
They  find  him.  They  claim  him.  Little  Mozart  sits 
at  the  old  spinet  in  his  night-dress.  Little  Benjamin 
Watt  busies  himself  with  his  pencils  and  brushes. 
Irvine,   the    child  naturalist,   cannot    leave  the  woods 


20  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

and  the  life  in  them  even  at  midnight.  The  little 
mechanic  too,  is  discovered  and  claimed.  And  each 
child  loves  that  language  of  Nature  which  is  his  ozvn, 
and  which  one  day  he  will  interpret. 

No  healthy  child  is,  however,  content  with  one  order 
of  impressions.  However  early  his  bent  may  declare 
itself,  he  is  no  specialist.  He  sees  around  him  a 
wonderful  life  which  he  wants  to  share.  He  looks 
at  the  big  people  around  him  with  their  big  churches, 
big  houses,  big  roads,  and  railways  and  furniture. 
Everything  is  on  a  vast  scale — too  vast. 

But  the  child,  in  order  to  receive  vivid  impressions 
adopts  an  ingenious  method.  He  creates  a  small 
world  around  him,  imitating  what  he  sees,  but  repro- 
ducing everything  on  a  scale  that  suits  himself.  He 
makes  toys. 

At  least — he  ought  to  make  toys.  He  wants  to 
make  them;  but  he  may  of  course  be  thwarted.  If 
his  parents  are  well-to-do  they  may  buy  toys  for  him. 
And  what  foolish  toysl  They  were  made  probably 
in  Germany — not  by  children  who  want  to  play,  but 
by  grown-up  people  who  want  to  sell.  Surely  if 
anyone,  even  a  child,  has  a  life  of  his  own,  he 
ought  to  embody  that  life  in  his  work,  and  begin  to 
do  this  as  early  as  possible. 

"  No  toys  1    Then  no  poets,  no  thinkers,  no  invent- 


IMPRESSIONS.  21 

ors,  no  great  craftsmen !  "  That  is  the  pronouncement 
of  one  of  the  greatest  teachers  of  our  century. 

And  the  story  of  the  childhood  of  nearly  any  and 
every  great  inventor,  or  craftsman,  or  poet  justifies 
him.  For  they  all  made  toys,  played  with  kettles 
or  engines  which  they  made  themselves.  The  average 
child  would  make  toys  if  encouraged  to  do  so,  and 
would  reveal  in  so  doing  his  own  nature,  and  the 
spirit  of  his  own  race  and  country. 

Here,  for  example,  is  a  little  English  boy  of  six. 
With  some  little  help  from  his  father  he  has  made 
a  rude  little  locomotive  and  carriages.  For  weeks  he 
has  examined  trains  with  real  interest.  He  knows  a 
great  deal  about  them  now.  He  grooves  wood  in 
order  to  make  a  railway,  and  fits  his  carriages  (made 
out  of  match-boxes)  with  little  windows. 

He  makes  other  toys  besides  1  Chairs,  tables,  ships, 
hammers — all  of  wood.  Roughly  made  as  they  are 
they  have  the  English  hall-mark  on  them.  No  one 
could  say  on  looking  at  them,  "They  were  made 
in  Germany",  for  they  were  obviously  made  in 
England,  and  by  a  child  who  has  an  Englishman's 
love  of  construction  and  the  Englishman's  love 
for  utility.  This  little  boy  has  a  sister  who  plays 
with  dolls.  He  does  not  despise  the  dolls,  neither 
does    she    ignore     his    wheels     and     engines.     They 


22  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

play  together.  The  dolls  lead  an  eventful  life. 
They  travel  by  land  and  sea,  intermarry,  preach, 
hold  concerts,  quarrel,  die,  have  illnesses — in  short, 
see  a  great  deal  of  life.  The  children  live  through 
them.  Through  them  they  have  many  experiences, 
leading  a  free,  rapid,  and  various  life.  It  is  not 
strange  that  they  are  affectionate  and  intelligent  — 
though  probably  not  more  gifted  naturally  than  ordi- 
nary children.  They  play  a  great  deal.  And  they 
are  using  their  time  well.  They  are  gathering  ma- 
terials for  the  higher  mental  life  which  is  to  follow, 
just  as  in  the  sub-conscious  life  of  infancy  they  once 
gathered  materials  for  the  conscious  life  they  are 
enjoying  now.  Soon,  of  course,  they  will  outgrow 
their  toys,  just  as  nations  outgrow  their  idols.  They 
will  become  iconoclasts  perhaps,  breaking  the  little 
engines  and  carriages  to  which  they  owe  their  first 
conceptions  of  physical  Science — breaking  or  neglect- 
ing the  dolls  to  whom  they  owe  so  many  social  in- 
stincts, so  many  dawning  graces  of  mind  and  character. 
Like  other  idol-breakers  they  know  not  what  they  owe 
to  the  image  they  break.  They  do  not  know  that 
through  them  their  sympathies  have  been  broadened, 
their  perceptions  enlarged,  their  consciousness  widened. 
Yet  through  these  poor  headless  and  broken  things 
all  this  has  become  possible.     It  is  not  through  loving 


IMPRESSIONS.  23 

nothing,  and  worshipping  nothing  that  children  and 
larger  children  grow.  It  is  by  loving  what  they  can 
— what  they  have — a  piece  of  wood  or  stone  if 
there  is  nothing  better.  Later  they  will  let  these  go. 
It  would  be  a  crime  indeed  to  love  them  too  long. 
"Little  children  keep  yourselves  from  idols,"  said  the 
gentle  St  John.  But  the  people  he  addressed  were 
no  longer  children  save  in  simplicity  of  heart. 

The  child  depends  on  his  toys.  He  depends  on  his 
environment.  He  depends  on  these  because  through 
them  the  sub-conscious  life  is  nourished.  And  the 
important  things  for  him  are  not  the  things  which 
concern  the  conscious  life,  but  the  sub-conscious.  The 
consciousness  of  any  one  person  is  small  at  any  given 
moment.  The  word  we  speak,  the  thought  we  have 
just  had  is  not  us.  It  is  a  ripple  on  the  top  of  us. 
Below  is  the  self — the  dark  sea.  The  child  is  less  con- 
scious than  we.  As  has  been  already  remarked  many 
things  escape  his  notice,  but  he  does  not  escape  them. 
Impressions  flow  in  on  him  and  form  his  sub-conscious- 
ness. And  from  this  sub-conscious  life  he  draws  the 
materials  of  his  thoughts. 

Therefore  the  tone  of  the  teacher  is  more  to  him 
than  her  words.  The  colours  of  the  pictures  and 
walls  affect  him  more  than  the  subjects  of  the  pictures  : 
the    unconscious   looks,  and  movements,  and  manners 


24  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

of  all  the  little  persons  around  take  hold  of  him 
through  his  plastic  body,  and  form  him.  That  is  why 
it  is  important  above  all  for  the  little  child  that  the 
school  should  be  beautiful,  or  at  least  that  the  effect 
of  the  class-room  and  its  furnishings  should  be  har- 
monious. Far  more  important  that  the  teacher  should 
be  gentle  and  cultured,  than  that  she  should  be  able 
to  teach  him  how  to  work  sums  or  to  spell  words. 
Of  course  number  is  important — and  so  is  spelling. 
But  formal  teaching  does  not  convey  any  wakening 
thrill.  A  child  may  learn  the  date  of  the  Norman 
conquest,  or  the  multiplication  table,  but  such  things 
do  not  sink  into  the  mind  (as  does  the  colour,  and  the 
voices,  and  the  light,  and  the  love  around  one)  and 
tincture  it  for  ever.  Formal  teaching  is  a  very  trivial 
matter  in  comparison  with  the  vital  education  given 
through  impressions. 

For  example,  there  is  in  this  city  (Bradford)  a 
family  of  children  whose  parents  belong  to  the  poorest 
class.  In  spite  of  many  privations,  these  children  are 
conspicuous  for  their  gentle  and  joyous  character. 
Their  home  is  in  a  back-to-back  house  in  one  of  the 
poorest  districts  of  the  city.  The  "back"  in  which 
they  live,  however,  faces  south  and  the  rooms  are 
sunny.  On  the  walls  there  are  some  pretty  coloured 
pictures.     The  rooms  contain  nothing  sordid  or  ugly. 


IMPRESSIONS.  25 

The  curtains,  table-cover  and  carpet  are  all  faded,  but, 
like  many  faded  things,  these  are  beautiful  and  har- 
monious in  colour.  The  children  go  to  a  school  whose 
mistress  understands  the  importance  of  good  sub- 
conscious impressions.  Bright  and  pure  colours  salute 
them  from  the  walls.  No  examples  of  crude  greens 
or  vulgar  magentas  are  slipped  among  the  paper, 
straw,  etc.,  with  which  they  work.  And  teacher  and 
mother  alike  possess  that  excellent  thing  in  woman — 
a  sweet  voice.  The  immediate  result  of  this  happy 
combination  of  circumstances  is  not  that  the  little 
ones  have  an  appreciation  of  art,  but  that  they  display 
remarkable  animation  and  joy  in  life.  Other  results 
will  follow  later.  Having  felt  and  loved  good  im- 
pressions, they  will  by-and-by  reject  evil  ones.  At 
present  they  do  not  select  or  reject — they  accept  what 
is  provided  for  them. 

Here  is  another  family,  who  have  been  brought  up 
in  the  front  of  that  same  house.  They  go  to  a  poor 
school  in  the  neighbourhood,  where  the  walls  are 
covered  with  pictures — any  kind  of  pictures.  The 
teacher  has  spoiled  her  voice  by  straining  and  shouting. 
The  children  show  considerable  intelligence,  but  there 
is  a  strange  lack  of  life  and  spontaneity  in  them. 
They  are  depressed,  and  their  depression  is  obvious 
even  in  their  noisiest  moments.     They  do  not  complain  ; 


26  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

but  all  is  not  well  with  them.  They  pass  their  stan- 
dards creditably  as  do  the  children  in  the  back  rooms. 
But  how  different  is  their  education!  Soon  they  will 
leave  school.  They  will  forget  a  great  deal  that  they 
have  learned  out  of  books,  but  they  will  not  be  able 
to  forget  their  early  impressions.  These  will  remain. 
Even  when  health  and  strength  fail  they  will  not  fade 
away.  They  will  remain — when  extreme  age  comes 
they  will  be  all  that  remains  of  the  past! 

Let  it  be  stated  once  for  all,  that  during  the  first 
years  the  child  is  getting  materials  together.  Every 
day  he  amasses  a  certain  amount  of  treasure,  of  dross, 
or  of  mingled  ore,  and  this,  with,  of  course,  his  hered- 
itary tendencies,  is  the  capital  with  which  he  starts 
his  conscious  life.  Is  a  man  brave,  strong,  refined, 
sympathetic?  These  fine  qualities  cannot  be  evolved 
from  nothing.  The  man  has  something  good  to 
draw  on  in  the  sub-consciousness.  Is  he  an  evil  per- 
son? In  that  case — in  any  case — there  has  been 
accumulation.  Nothing  comes  out  of  Nothing.  As 
a  great  Teacher  puts  it,  "  A  good  man  out  of  the  good 
treasure  of  his  heart  bringeth  forth  good  things,  and 
an  evil  man  out  of  the  evil  treasure  of  his  heart 
bringeth  forth  evil  things." 

The  quality  of  the  treasure,  and  even  its  amount,  is  de- 
termined largely  by  the  mother  and  the  Infant  Teacher. 


CHAPTER    III. 

MOVEMENTS. 

All  living  creatures  move. 

Take  up  the  tiny  hand  of  an  infant  and  you  will 
see  that  it  trembles.  Not  only  the  fingers,  but  the 
whole  body  moves  tremulously.  These  feeble  move- 
ments effect  nothing  at  all.  And  yet  they  tell  us 
that  the  child  lives— that  the  brain  is  active — that 
nerve-currents  are  already  passing  from  the  Royal 
Organ  to  the  extremities. 

But  now  the  baby  is  twelve  months  old  and  all  is 
changed.  He  tries  to  walk,  to  grasp,  to  rattle  things 
together.  He  points,  pulls,  strikes,  salutes,  caresses — 
he  tries  to  speak,  that  is  to  say  makes  rapid  move- 
ments with  the  vocal  organs.  And  these  movements 
are  directed  more  or  less  by  will.  They  appear  to 
have  nothing  at  all  to  do  with  the  helpless  movements 
peculiar  to  an  earlier  stage  of  life. 

And  yet  the  child  has  not  entirely  ceased  to  be 
an  infant.  He  has  little  control  of  the  various  parts 
of  his  body.  Any  stimulation  of  the  nervous  system 
causes  him  to  perform  large  movements.     He  laughs, 


28  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

cries,  and  rejoices  with  his  whole  body,  every  action 
also  tends  to  be  general — for  example,  on  beginning 
to  walk  he  uses  not  two  limbs,  but  four.  "  Why  not 
train  the  feet  as  you  are  giving  bi-manual  training?" 
asked  a  gentleman  the  other  day.  The  answer  is,  It 
is  not  necessary;  children  who  receive  bi-manual 
training  are  already  far  advanced,  not  indeed  as  artists, 
but  as  human  beings.  In  grasping  things  he  often 
uses,  not  one  hand,  but  two ;  and  not  hands  alone, 
but  arms  as  well.  All  this  proves  that  the  nervous 
system  is  not  yet  highly  developed. 

But  now  he  is  five  years  old.  What  progress  he 
has  made  !  He  walks  on  two  feet,  and  can  speak 
plainly.  He  often  stretches  out  his  arm  when  he 
wants  an  object,  and  grasps  it  with  one  hand. 

It  is  at  this  stage  of  his  existence  that  the  State 
takes  possession  of  him.  And  in  nothing  is  the  school 
treatment  of  the  child  so  revolutionary  as  in  the 
matter  of  movements.  Up  to  the  age  of  five  little 
John  Smith  has  run  about  nimbly,  but  now  he  has 
to  keep  his  feet  still,  to  give  his  lower  limbs  a  most 
unwelcome  restl 

On  the  other  hand,  a  great  deal  of  new  work  falls 
to  his  small  fingers.  Perhaps  he  has  to  prick  holes 
with  pins  in  paper.  But  even  if  pricking  has  gone 
out  he  may  have  to  sew,  to  write  in  small  books,  to 


MOVEMENTS.  29 

draw  from  point  to  point.  John,  being  adaptive,  soon 
learns  to  make  the  new  movements.  With  pen  or 
pencil  firmly  gripped  in  his  little  fist  he  makes 
wonderful  progress  — writes,  draws  to  the  admiration 
of  all.  Yet  this  tight  gripping  itself  tells  us  that 
John's  control  is  not  that  of  a  grown-up  person. 
Ask  him  to  write  on  the  blackboard  and  you  will  see 
that  he  moves  his  body  and  limbs. 

Nay,  when  he  writes  a  difficult  letter  he  will  often 
put  out  his  tongue  and  make  it  follow  the  movements 
of  the  pen.  Is  John  ready  for  fine  finger  work?  And 
how  much  control  over  the  fingers  does  he  possess 
at  the  age  of  five  ? 

It  is  well  to  settle  this  question  before  going  any 
further.  Anatomically,  exercise  leads  to  organization, 
starting  from  the  centre  first  developed.  But  it  is 
not  a  matter  of  indifference  how  or  where  organization 
begins.  Irregularities  in  that  slow  movement  called 
growth  lead  to  the  production  of  monstrosities.  Irregu- 
larities in  the  more  rapid  kind  of  movement  called 
action  lead  to  disorders  and  enfeeblement  of  the  nervous 
system.  So  that  it  is  necessary  to  consider  what  the 
sequence  of  natural  growth  is,  and  to  follow  it.  In 
what  order  do  the  various  parts  of  the  body  pass 
under  the  control  of  the  will  ?  What  degree  of  control 
has  a  child  of  five  over  the  varions  parts  of  the  hand 


30  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

and  arm — and  in  what  order  does  he  attain  it?  Only 
on  learning  this  can  we  form  a  trustworthy  opinion 
as  to  the  kind  of  movements  appropriate  to  him. 

Dr.  Hancock  of  Massachusetts  has  made  certain 
tests  which  throw  some  light  on  this  subject — in  so  far, 
at  least,  as  the  arm  and  hand  are  concerned.  Those 
tests  were  applied  to  about  one  hundred  and  sixty 
children,  ranging  from  five  to  seven  years  of  age. 
Dr.  Hancock  writes  as  follows : 

"  They  were  shown  how  to  beat  twice.  Arm  move- 
ments were  used.  Practically  all  could  beat  double  time 
freely.  Treble  and  quadruple  were  more  difficult,  but, 
by  going  slowly,  it  was  done  by  all  but  fifteen,  in 
the  not  more  than  two  minutes'  time  taken  for  each  test. 

"They  were  asked  to  make  one  hand  move  in  a 
circle  on  the  breast;  after  this  was  started  they  were 
asked  to  place  the  other  hand  on  the  top  of  the  head 
and  to  pat  with  it.  In  forty-five  cases  the  result  was 
either  patting  with  both  hands  or  moving  them  both 
in  a  circle,  or  an  alternating  of  these,  but  a  considerable 
degree  of  success  followed  in  each  case." 

In  these  large  exercises  involving  arm  movements 
the  children  were,  you  see,  fairly  successful. 

Here  is  a  new  test,  however, — a  test  of  finer  co- 
ordinations of  finger-movements — out  of  which  they  do 
not  come  so  triumphantly. 


A  Revolt. 

After  Sir  E.  Landseer,  R.A. 

(Sheepshanks  Gift.) 


MOVEMENTS.  31 

"  The  children  were  asked  to  rest  their  fore-arms 
on  the  table,  the  hands  in  an  easy  position,  with  the 
fingers  curved,  the  lower  parts  of  the  palms  and  the 
tips  of  the  fingers  touching  the  surface  of  the  table, 
and  then  to  begin  tapping,  letting  the  movements 
proceed  rapidly  from  the  little  fingers  to  the  thumbs. 
They  were  also  asked  to  reverse  the  order,  but  all 
failed  to  do  so;  five  succeeded  somewhat  slowly  in 
tapping  correctly  with  both  hands,  four  were  successful 
with  the  right  hand  only,  and  three  with  the  left; 
fifty  tapped  with  the  whole  hand,  using  a  wrist  motion ; 
forty-nine  alternated  the  index  finger  with  the  other 
three ;  twenty-five  gave  irregular  movements — indefinite 
and  uncertain ;  in  twelve  cases  the  movement  was 
from   the   knuckles,   all, the  fingers  moving  together." 

It  is  clear  that  the  children  had  little  or  no  control 
of  the  finer  muscles.  Power  over  these  belongs  to  a 
later  period  of  life  than  that  which  they  had  attained. 
The  order  of  development  of  control  is  body,  shoul- 
der, arm,  fore-arm,  and  last  of  all,  hand.  Even 
there  there  is  a  definite  march  or  succession  of  events. 
Control  of  the  index  finger  develops  first.  Control  over 
all  the  fingers  is  gained  gradually,  but  at  last  excels 
the  control  gained  over  the  upper  part  of  the  limb,  and 
translates  itself  quickly  into  new  intelligence.  (This  is 
not  wonderful  in  view  of  the  fact  that  movements  are 


32  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

registered  in  the  brain,  and  involve  the  awaking  of 
brain  cells.)  In  the  case  of  the  artist,  or  even  of 
the  good  craftsman,  this  control  becomes  so  great 
that  he  can  express  all  his  best  power  or  feeling 
through  his  hand.  Mere  manual  dexterity  will  not 
enable  anyone  to  be  an  artist.  For  it  is  the  mind — 
the  soul  that  is  expressed  in  Art.  But  though  it  is 
well  to  know  that  dexterity  is  not  Art, — that  the 
motor  centres  are  not  the  soul, — still  we  may  feel 
assured  that  to  injure  the  hand  is  to  injure  the  brain. 
A  child  cannot  become  an  artist,  till  he  has  passed 
(it  may  be  very  rapidly)  through  many  successive 
stages  of  growth.  Yet  nothing  but  mischief  can 
attend  the  attempt  to  hurry  him  forward,  and  make 
him  attempt  what  is  beyond  him. 

In  play  every  young  creature  performs  the  move- 
ments natural  to  his  age.  The  lamb  frolics,  the  kitten 
runs  and  turns  over  and  over.  The  child  too  frolics. 
He  jumps,  runs,  swings,  and  sets  every  limb  in  motion. 
Now  control  is  first  established  between  the  brain  and 
any  limb  as  a  whole.  Therefore  these  large,  massive 
movements  of  the  child  in  play  are  educational,  and 
it  is  through  them  that  the  brain  is,  as  it  were,  got 
ready  for  any  finer  control. 

Thus  even  the  class-room  of  young  children  ought 
to  be  a  place  where  they  ca?i  play.     And  this — in  new 


MOVEMENTS.  33 

Junior  and  Infant  Schools — it  is  becoming.  For,  in 
choosing  the  exercises  of  a  child,  the  more  enlightened 
teacher  feels  more  and  more  that  he  must  take  the 
spontaneous  movements  into  account. 

He  has  to  take  them  into  account,  not  only  in 
providing  for  children's  play,  but  in  arranging  their 
employments  or  school  work.  He  has  to  remember 
them  especially  indeed  in  giving  training  in  the  class- 
room. 

For  the  wrong  kind  of  movements  induces  disorder 
and  weakness  just  as  certainly  as  the  right  kind  of 
movements  gives  new  power  and  control. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

ARM   AND   MANUAL  TRAINING. 

LOOK  at  the  hand  of  a  defective  child.  The  fingers 
are  probably  stunted  and  ill-formed — cold  and  blue — 
the  nails  broken,  the  palm  stiff.  Indeed  the  whole 
hand  often  hangs  stiff  and  motionless,  moved  like  a 
dead  thing  from  the  wrist.  Suppose  a  teacher  wants 
to  train  this  hand:  how  does  she  begin?  By  maxims? 
By  lessons  in  reading  or  writing  ?  No.  But  by  move- 
ment— by  exercise.  And  she  cannot  even  begin  by 
movements  of  the  hand.  She  must  let  her  pupil 
exercise  the  shoulder  and  arm  muscles.  Light  may 
be  in  the  child — and  pow'er,  and  will,  just  as  life 
may  be  in  the  apparently  drowned  man.  But  she  can 
restore  it  to  the  helpless  body  only  through  artificial 
movements. 

Look  now  at  the  hand  of  the  intelligent  labourer  or 
artizafi.  Perhaps  it  is  somewhat  spoiled  by  hard 
labour.  The  fingers  may  be  tightened — the  palm 
stiffened.  Still  it  is  not  a  coarse  hand,  for  a  coarse  or 
(to  use  an  expressive  French  word)  "grossier"  hand 
cannot  belong  to  an  intelligent  worker.     Adam  Bede's 


ARM  AND  MANUAL  TRAINING.  35 

arm  was  that  of  a  giant,  but  the  hand  was  "  long  and 
supple"  with  eloquent  finger-tips.  Nature  takes  care 
that  such  a  hand  shall  be  royal  even  in  his  rudeness. 
His  hand  is  like  a  page  marred  with  stains  and  blot- 
tings,  but  with  good  news  legible  behind  all  that. 
And  if  the  good  workman's  hand  is  eloquent,  how 
much  more  is  the  hand  of  the  artist.  Indeed  there  is 
nothing  more  beautiful  or  awe-inspiring  than  a  great 
artist's  hand.  And  doubtless  the  old  painters  found 
this  to  be  the  case,  for  they  represented  the  presence 
of  God  in  their  pictures  by  a  hand. 

All  true  education  is,  primarily,  physiological.  It  is 
concerned,  not  with  books,  but  with  nervous  tissue. 
Therefore  the  parent  who  says  brutally,  "  Let  my  child 
go  to  work,  and  he  will  learn  enough,"  is  not  wholly 
in  the  wrong.  His  words  are  reckless  and  cruel,  and 
under  existing  conditions  have  no  warrant  at  all.  Never- 
theless it  was  through  work,  and  not  by  books,  that 
our  race  received  the  vital  part  of  its  education. 
The  question  now  before  us  is  one  of  elementary 
training.  Here  is  the  little  arm — the  little  hand  of  a 
child  of  five :  How  can  these  best  be  exercised  so 
that  the  whole  body  shall  be  the  gainer? 

At  the  very  outset  we  have  to  recognize  that  we 
cannot  separate  development  of  the  muscular  sense 
from   that    of  the  sense   of  touch.     Even   when   the 


36  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

arm  is  motionless,  the  thought  of  movement  will  increase, 
not  only  the  flow  of  blood  to  the  brain,  but  the  flow 
of  blood  in  the  arm.  And  this  accession  of  power 
and  volume  is  translated  in  some  measure  into  an 
increased  susceptibility :  which  means  that  even  move- 
ment affects  the  sense  of  touch,  while  at  the  same  time 
touching,  or  handling,  is  a  succession  of  movements. 
It  is  natural  and  inevitable  that  in  training  an  arm 
and  hand  we  must  think,  not  merely  of  what  it  draws, 
but  mainly  of  what  it  forms,  or  models. 

The  infant  receives,  as  we  know,  in  his  cradle  some 
training  of  the  basal  sense.  He  touches  many  things, 
though  he  does  not  try  to  shape  any.  But  long 
before  the  age  of  five  he  begins  to  pound  and  mix 
mud-pies,  to  roll  sand  into  towers  and  spires,  and  (if 
he  can  lay  hands  on  a  knife)  to  chip  wood  into  blocks 
or  points.  Then  he  comes  to  school,  where  this  natural 
education  is  or  ought  to  be  continued. 

From  the  first  the  sense  of  touch  and  that  of  vision 
have  been  close  allies.  The  child  has  already  seen 
many  things,  and  has  learned  to  see  them  better 
through  handling.  But  in  the  school  learning  is  made 
easy.  Here  is  clay -a  malleable  substance— and  (we 
will  suppose)  many  forms  are  put  within  his  sight 
and  reach.  The  successful'teacher  of  a  class  of  very 
young  children  shows  us   16  life  forms,  besides  balls, 


ARM  AND  MANUAL  TRAINING.  37 

rolls,  geometric  and  fruit  forms.  The  average  child, 
entering  the  modelling  class  does  not  begin  to  work ; 
he  looks  at  the  models,  also  at  his  new  companions 
making  the  movements  that  are  necessary.  He  gets  the 
idea  of  a  movement,  and  this  is,  in  reality  the  beginning 
of  movement.  l  The  more  intense  the  idea,  the  more 
imperious  the  need  of  action. 

But  the  desire  to  touch,  model,  and  make  is  accom- 
panied in  the  normal  child  by  another  tendency — viz., 
that  of  drawing  lines,  or  masses  on  a  flat  surface. 
The  child's  favourite  drawing-surface  is  a  wall.  This 
ought  not  to  surprise  us,  for  do  we  not  ourselves  hang 
pictures  on  walls?  The  child  likes  to  draw  them  on 
walls,  and  so  constantly  is  he  tempted  to  do  this,  that  the 
school-keepers  of  nearly  every  Board  have  instructions 
"to  wash  out  all  writings  and  drawings  on  the  walls." 

It  sometimes  happens  that  a  teacher  is  bold  enough  to 
let  the  child  lead  him.  Of  such  teachers  is  Mr.  Liberty 
Tadd  of  Philadelphia,  whose  success  in  teaching  drawing 
to  children  is  awaking  so  much  interest  at  present. 

He  allowed  his  small  pupils  to  draw  on  the  wall — 
or  on  some  large,  upright,  prepared  surface  equivalent 
to   a   wall.     And   he  went  further.     Having  observed 

1  We  know,  to  our  cost,  that  the  idea  is  the  beginning  of  a  move- 
ment or  action.  For  very  often  we  cannot  stop  this  movement. 
For  example:  having  thought  of  something  we  desire  not  to  say  or  do, 
we  proceed  infallibly  to  say  or  do  it. 


38  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

that  young  children  make  large  movements  as  com- 
pared with  older  people,  and  obviously  possess  only 
a  very  limited  amount  of  control,  he  permitted  them 
to  draw,  not  with  one  hand  only,  but  with  both  arms 
and  both  hands  1 

The  wisdom  of  the  latter  step  can  be  questioned 
only  by  those  who  ignore  the  closeness  of  the  relations 
that  exist  between  the  various  parts  and  members  of 
the  body.  To  exercise  the  right  hand  is  to  exercise 
at  the  same  time  an  area  of  the  left  side  of  the  brain. 
To  speak  is  to  increase  the  energy  of  the  right  side 
of  the  body.  Many  people  become  excited  through 
the  mere  act  of  speaking,  more  especially  if  their 
speech  is  accompanied  by  gestures  of  the  arm  and 
hand.  Fere  points  out  that  if  one  makes  with  the 
foot  certain  movements  on  a  pedal,  the  force  of  the 
corresponding  hand  is  soon  much  increased — later, 
even  the  energy  of  the  other  hand  is  augmented  — 
that  is  to  say  the  movement  of  one  member  reinforces 
every  member.  The  movement  itself  is  a  stimulus, 
and  may  give  rise  to  much  finer  orders  of  movement. 
When  a  deaf  mute  has  gesticulated  with  energy  for 
some  time  he  nearly  always  gives  vent  to  an  inarti- 
culate sound— that  is  to  say  he  touches  the  border- 
land of  Language. 

The  exercise  of  any  member,  then  — of  any  cerebral 


ARM  AND  MANUAL  TRAINING.  39 

centre  or  area  of  the  brain — has  an  effect  on  the  whole 
system.  But  in  spite  of  this  subtle  communion  and 
interdependence,  different  members  and  areas  of  the 
brain  have  a  certain  independence  of  a  nature  to 
ensure  reciprocity  and  supplementary  power.  For 
example:  when  the  right  hand  is  tired  out  by  the 
repetition  of  one  or  more  movements,  the  left  does 
not  lose  its  energy.  On  the  contrary  it  seems  to 
accumulate  new  power.  In  cases  of  great  intellectual 
labour  and  fatigue  the  strength  of  the  left  side  dimi- 
nishes less  rapidly  than  that  of  the  right. 

A  young  child  has  little  power  of  voluntary  atten- 
tion— and  correspondingly  little  strength.  On  the 
other  hand,  he  shows  a  tendency  to  make  a  great 
number  of  large  movements.  Moreover,  he  uses  the 
left  hand  as  well  as  the  right,  will  hold  out  the  left 
hand  in  greeting,  or  seize  his  chalk,  or  book  with  it. 
And  this  tendency  ought  not  to  be  early  discouraged. 
It  is  obvious  that  as  the  child  grows,  and  the  nervous 
system  is  more  and  more  highly  differentiated,  the  work 
of  various  members  will  become  more  and  more  finely 
sub-divided.  The  artist  does  not  draw  with  both 
hands,  but  with  one  hand.  But  we  are  not  now 
concerned  with  the  artist  or  his  work,  but  with  the 
physical  training  of  children  as  a  preparation  for 
every  kind  of  useful  and  noble  work. 


4° 


EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 


A  child  is  not  ready  at  the  age  of  5  as  yet  to  do 
fine  work  of  any  kind.  He  is  ready  only  to  make 
large  movements. 

The  first  lessons  are  concerned,  then,  with  large  arm- 
movements.  Below  is  a  portrait  of  children  taken  in 
the   studio   of  Mr.  Bloomfield    Bare.     They  are  aged 


four  and  five  respectively.  They  stand  before  an 
upright  board  fixed  in  the  wall,  and  draw  lines,  or 
swing  circles,  repeating  the  same  movement  many 
times.  They  make  a  great  many  mistakes,*  but  they 
do  not  rub  out.  They  go  on  working.  "  Human  feel- 
ing," wrote    George  Eliot,"  is  like  the  mighty  rivers. 


ARM  AND  MANUAL  TRAINING.  41 

It  does  not  wait  for  beauty.  It  flows  with  resistless 
force,  and  brings  beauty  with  it."  Human  power, 
too,  is  like  the  rivers.  It  flows,  and  brings  beauty 
with  it. 

At  first  the  drawing  is  automatic  (as  it  will  be 
again,  later  on,  though  in  quite  a  new  sense).  The 
child  is  led  on,  or  helped,  by  his  very  weakness.  He 
sees  a  movement  made,  and  the  idea  of  this  movement 
takes  possession  of  him.  As  the  nervous  system  is  as  yet 
little  differentiated  he  offers  no  resistance  as  it  were, 
but  begins  instinctively  to  execute  the  movement. 
At  first  his  arm  and  hand  have  wonderfully  little 
energy — the  lines  or  circles  are  weak,  and  faltering. 
But  this  is  soon  changed.  Through  the  various 
sensory  impressions  involved  in  the  making  of  the 
movement,  and  the  frequent  recurrence  of  these,  the 
mental  representations  become  more  and  more  distinct. 
That  is  to  say  the  attention  is  roused.  And  with 
attention  comes,  as  we  know,  a  new  accession  of 
power — which  is  not  merely  intellectual,  but  in  its  most 
striking  manifestation,  muscular.  Thanks  to  exercise, 
and  the  more  abundant  flow  of  blood  to  the  arm 
and  hand,  the  sensibility  too  is  enhanced.  The  child 
becomes  capable  of  feeling  and  seeing  a  new  world ; 
and  at  last  becomes  ready  and  eager  to  be  introduced 
to  the  new  alphabet  o(  form. 


42  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

He  learns  this  new  alphabet,  not  merely  by  drawing 
on  the  black-board,  but  by  the  work  of  his  own  hands. 
"Children  of  six,"  writes  Mr.  Tadd,  "take  pleasure  in 
making  balls,  stars,  pyramids,  rosettes,  mushrooms, 
easy  fruit  forms."  Then  it  is  but  a  step  to  animal 
forms — chickens,  ducks,  swans,  star-fish,  horses,  sheep, 
men  and  women :  let  him  attempt  to  model  them  all. 
He  will  make  grotesque  models — but  in  making  them,  he 
will  receive  and  register  a  vast  number  of  impressions, 
exercise  his  imagination,  as  well  as  his  observing  and 
perceptive  faculties,  strengthen  and  refine  the  hand,  and 
awaken  dormant  areas  of  the  brain.  Meantime  the 
blackboard  work  is  to  be  carried  on.  Line  and 
Loop  Drill,  spirals,  scrolls,  leaf-forms,  combinations  of 
units — and,  at  last,  simple  and  original  designs.  This 
is  Mr.  Tadd's  bold  but  very  natural  order  of  exercise — 
his  pupils  being  allowed  to  pass  very  rapidly,  as  we 
see,  from  the  stage  of  mere  automatism  and  imitation. 

Gradually  through  power  gained  over  the  muscles 
a  new  power  is  evolved — a  higher  one.  The  will 
emerges  and  takes  possession  of  the  kingdom  which 
has  been  prepared  for  it,  and  out  of  which  it  has 
been  liberated.  Gradually,  too,  the  movements  which 
have  been  conquered,  and  which  can  now  be  executed 
with  conscious  power  and  steady  hand,  become,  in  a 
new  sense,   automatic.     Movements   which    have  been 


ARM  AND  MANUAL  TRAINING.  43 

conquered  can  be  made  almost  without  effort — they 
fall  under  the  jurisdiction,  as  it  were,  of  the  uncon- 
scious cerebral  life,  so  that  the  intelligence,  no  longer 
occupied  with  them,  can  devote  itself  to  some  new 
conquest.  And  this  is  why  well-trained  people  appear 
to  achieve  great  things.  We  look  at  their  work  and 
think  of  it  as  a  single  success  and  effort;  whereas  we 
are  looking  in  reality  at  many  successes,  at  the  result 
of  innumerable  efforts  many  of  which  are  long  forgotten ! 

The  next  photograph  is  a  pleasant  one.  To  be  sure, 
the  face  of  the  youthful  artist  is  partly  hidden,  but 
one  knows  that  it  is  a  charming  face.  The  attitude 
is  gentle — almost  caressing.  The  movements  the  child 
is  making  are  in  every  sense  appropriate  -  appropriate 
to  her  age  and  status,  and  nature. 

And  this  beauty,  this  grace  in  movement  is  obtained 
through  control,  and  through  nothing  else. 

Yet  we  would  be  very  wide  of  the  truth  in  think- 
ing that  the  control  itself  was  a  mere  matter  of  grace ! 

The  true  Teacher  is  always  an  artist,  and  his 
training  is  always  Art-training  even  when  it  is  con- 
cerned with  the  mere  swinging  of  circles,  the  guiding 
of  unsteady  little  hands,  the  rearing  of  the  scaffolding 
on  which  the  future  worker's  and  thinker's  life-struc- 
ture will  rest. 


44 


EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 


Art-training  proper  begins,  however,  only  when  the 
movements  are  highly   specialised. 

When  the  child  has  passed  out  of  the  lower  stand- 


ards his  movements  in  drawing,  or  in  other  modes  of 
expression,  must  be  determined  very  largely  by  the 
character  of  his  own  mind.  Otherwise  he  ceases  to 
express  himself  altogether,  and  merely  copies   another 


ARM  AND  MANUAL  TRAINING.  45 

person's  movement  quite  mechanically.  "You  may," 
writes  Walter  Crane,  "  drill  a  number  of  children  to 
do  the  same  thing  with  remarkable  precision,  but 
to  really  put  them  in  possession  of  a  method  of 
expressing  their  thoughts  and  impressions  is  another 
matter."  The  reason  of  this  is  not  far  to  seek.  A 
child's  movements  represent  his  mind.  For  the  brain 
initiates  the  movements  which  accompany  or  follow 
perception,  images  or  ideas.  Through  the  muscular 
sense  he  is  conscious  of  these — not  as  a  thing  apart 
— but  as  an  integral  part  of  his  own  life's  individu- 
ality. As  he  executes  these  he  finds  a  new  stimulus. 
Where  the  movement  is  imposed  the  stimulus  will  be 
lacking.  The  energy  is  not  reinforced — the  atten- 
tion is  not  arrested.  To  impose  movements  unduly 
is  to  interfere  with  the  life  processes,  to  make  life, 
and  therefore  any  expression  of  life,  impossible. 

Nevertheless  since  all  mental  life  depends  on  move- 
ments, and  arrests  of  movement — and  since,  moreover, 
during  the  earlier  years  the  movements  are  not  so 
much  an  expression  of  life  as  a  means  to  its  awak- 
ening, it  is  obvious  that  much  depends  on  the  or- 
derly development  of  the  motor  centres.  Let  the 
brain  be  unduly  taxed  before  the  emotional  system, 
and  the  mental  life  will  be  barren  and  colourless. 
Let   one  side   of  the    body    be   neglected   while    the 


46  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

other  is  trained,  the  nervous  system  will  be  liable, 
to  strain,  and  the  brain  exposed  to  the  risk  of 
sudden  lesions.  Let  the  child  perform  small  and 
intricate  movements  before  he  has  practised  larger 
ones,  and  his  nervous  system,  like  a  machine  which 
has  been  wound  up  too  lightly,  will  begin  to  respond 
with  fearful  rapidity,  like  wheels  running  down  and 
approaching  final  stoppage  and  collapse. 

On  the  other  hand,  if  the  movements  are  well 
ordered  we  have  a  great  guarantee  that  the  whole  life 
will  be  orderly  and  harmonious.  "This  is  Poetry," 
said  Emerson  to  his  friend,  as  they  watched  the  move- 
ments of  a  great  dancer.  "  This  is  Religion,"  she 
answered,  and  both  were  right.  For  what  is  right 
conduct  but  beautiful  and  harmonious  movement, — 
the  perfected  movement  which  implies  so  much 
arrest.  And  as  thought  is  not  merely  cerebral,  but 
also  muscular,  should  we  not  consider  all  the  move- 
ments of  a  growing  child  as  conducive  to  either  good 
or  bad  conduct,  and  direct  him  with  some  solicitude 
in  those  efforts  whereby  he  separates  himself  through 
expression  from  the  brute  nature,  and  aspires  to  a 
higher  human  life. 


CHAPTER    V. 

ORAL   TRAINING. 

"You  may  always  stand  for  Form  against  Force!" — Rttskin. 

In  giving  oral  training  we  have  to  do  with  an 
instrument.  Everyone  thinks  at  first  that  he  can  play 
on  this  instrument,  and  everyone  finds  at  last  that 
there  are  difficulties  in  the  way.  Then,  many  are 
content  to  treat  the  instrument  roughly, — to  get  sound 
out  of  it— that  is  all — and  turn  their  attention  to 
other  matters. 

Even  the  teacher  of  singing  and  languages  often 
pursues  this  course.  The  learning  of  a  new  language 
is,  first  and  foremost,  a  physical  exercise.  It  involves 
fine  movements— new  and  complex  co-ordinatives  of 
nerves  and  muscle.  But  this  is  a  serious  matter  because 
it  is  a  matter  of  primary  education.  It  has  to  do 
with  the  child's  own  body — his  lips,  and  tongue, 
and  lungs  and  larynx.  Can  the  teacher  himself  make  the 
necessary  movements?  Does  he  know  how  to  help 
his  pupil  to  gain  the  new  control  of  the  vocal  organs  ? 
Very  often  he  feels  that  he  cannot  do  this,  and  so 
he  hastens  to  do  something  else, — to  teach  Grammar, 


48  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

for  example — to  give  written  exercises,  to  explain, 
to  exhort,  to  memorize,  to  do  anything  in  short  except 
give  his  pupil  the  mastery  of  the  new  language 
through  his  body.  And  the  teacher  of  singing  will 
often  follow  a  similar  course.  Behold  John  Smith 
in  the  elementary  school.  He  sings  part  songs, 
reads  at  sight,  understands  the  staff  notation,  keeps 
time,  loves  concerts.  Yet  perhaps  he  cannot  take 
a  deep  breath!  Perhaps  he  has  not  even  been  told 
that  breath,  the  raw  material  of  voice,  has  anything 
to  do  with  speaking  or  singing. 

"What!"  cries  Mrs.  Smith,  the  average  mother — ■ 
"Have  our  children  then  to  learn  to  breathe?  But 
they  breathe  as  soon  as  they  are  born.  The  move- 
ments of  breathing  go  on  without  any  necessity  of 
interference  on  our  part."  Yes — it  is  true  that  the 
infant  breathes  naturally,  but  it  does  not  follow  that 
he  will  continue  to  do  so  for  many  years. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  the  average  child  does  not 
continue  to  breathe  in  a  healthy  and  natural  way  when 
he  has  outgrown  infancy.  Practically  all  town  children 
are  costal,  or  collar-bone  breathers — that  is  to  say 
they  breathe  without  inflating  the  lower  part  of  the 
lung.  And  country  children,  sleeping  as  they  often 
do  in  stuffy  rooms,  and  sitting  for  hours  daily  in 
foul  air,  are  hardly  in  a  better  plight. 


ORAL  TRAINING.  49 

A  great  pity  surely.  Here  is  a  boy  called  John 
Smith,  attending  the  elementary  school.  His  age  is 
eleven.  He  falls  short  by  two  and  a  half  inches  of 
the  normal  stature  of  a  boy  of  the  upper  middle  class. 
His  chest  is  too  narrow  by  six  or  seven  inches.  He 
breathes  from  the  upper  part  of  the  chest.  The  nos- 
trils are  light,  and  the  upper  lip  is  probably  stiff  and 
motionless.  Ask  him  to  take  a  deep  breath,  and  he 
will  probably  close  his  lips  tightly  and  pull  up  his 
shoulders.  But  he  cannot  take  a  deep  breath — has 
not  taken  one  possibly  for  years. 

The  Americans  declare  that  the  first  duty  of  a 
teacher  is  to  "generate  force."  It  would  be  easy  to 
generate  new  force  in  John  Smith.  Here  is  no  disease 
— as  yet.  Here  is  an  intelligence  waiting.  Nay,  the 
intelligence  is  not  waiting.  John  is  passing  his  stand- 
ards. His  brain  and  his  lungs  are  acting  as  well  as 
possible  under  the  circumstances.  But  that  he  is 
heavily  handicapped  you  may  judge  from  the  following 
words  written  by  Dr.  Kerr,  the  able  medical  adviser 
of  the  Bradford  School  Board. 

"  Mouth  breathing,  whatever  its  cause,  leads  in  lesser 
or  greater  degree  to  a  chain  of  evils.  (1)  Interference 
with  the  amount  of  air  breathed,  and  consequently 
poor  nutrition,  and  stunted  growth.  (2)  The  setting 
up    of  catarrhal    conditions    of   the    ears,    leading   to 

4 


5o  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

diminished  hearing  powers,  or  even  to  actual  suppur- 
ative disease  of  the  ear,  generally  ending  fatally  before 
middle  life.  (3)  Interference  during  the  growing  period 
with  the  circulation  and  consequent  nutrition  of  the 
anterior  lobes  of  the  brain,  making  the  child  dull  in 
school,  and,  in  after  life,  lacking  in  character,  shiftless, 
and  unable  to  form  a  decision  "  etc. 

It  is  clear  that  the  average  child  is  being  seriously 
injured  by  the  conditions  of  modern  life.  If  we  could 
say  to  him :  Go  live  in  the  sunshine.  Breathe  the 
pure  air  of  day  and  the  pure  air  of  night!  Climb, 
wrestle,  and  run  like  a  young  animal — all  would  soon 
be  well  with  his  lungs.  But  it  is  clear  that  we  can- 
not do  this  to-day,  nor  even  to-morrow.  The  stuffy 
sleeping-room  will  not  be  pulled  down,  nor  the  narrow 
streets  razed  to  the  ground  next  week.  Meantime 
the  condition  of  the  average  child — not  the  slum 
child — but  the  child  of  the  well-to-do  artizan  is  a 
serious  one.  By  any  and  every  means  we  must 
generate  new  force,  or  at  least  prevent  all  the  finest 
force,  the  breathing  power,  which  is  the  staying  power, 
from  flowing  away. 

We  must  give  John  Smith  some  training  in  breathing. 

The  beginning  of  things  is  often  difficult — but  the 
first  breathing  lessons  are  easy  enough.  Make  the 
child    lie   flat   on  the  floor  or  on  some  dry  substance 


ORAL  TRAINING.  51 

out-of-doors.  See  that  the  room  (if  you  are  indoors) 
is  well  ventilated,  for  it  is  of  no  use  to  teach  a 
child  to  breathe  bad  air  well.  You  might  as  well 
give  him  his  food  in  an  unrinsed  poison-bowl.  See, 
too,  that  his  collar  is  loose,  and  that  no  belt  or 
band  is  pressing  on  the  base  of  the  lungs  and 
the  waist.  Let  the  child  then  close  the  lips,  and 
take  a  breath  slowly  through  the  nose.  When  he 
can  no  longer  take  air  into  the  lungs  without  strain- 
ing, let  him  open  the  mouth,  and  let  the  breath  out 
quietly  and  noiselessly.  Let  him  repeat  this  four  or 
five  times  and  then  rest.  At  first  he  may  experience 
a  little  difficulty.  The  will  must  be  exercised  in 
order  to  make  movements  which  were  once  involun- 
tary. But  they  are  natural  movements,  so  the 
child  will  soon  slip  back  into  them,  regaining  (what 
he  ought  never  to  have  lost)  the  art  of  deep,  quiet, 
natural  breathing. 

These  few  instructions,  and  many  others,  may  be 
found  in  Mrs.  Emil  Behnke's  useful  little  book,  "  The 
Speaking  Voice.'*  There  too  will  be  found  a  list  of 
graduated  breathing  exercises  which  bring  into  play 
the  muscles  of  the  whole  chest. 

It  is  a  good  thing  to  begin  if  possible  by  individual 
training  and  then  send  the  child  into  the  class-rooms 
or  gymnasium.     Supposing  there  can  be  no  individual 


52  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

training,  then  it  is  not  right  or  necessary  to  have  a 
teacher  breathing  all  day  in  an  exaggerated  manner. 
As  an  irate  superintendent  once  observed  when  such 
a  course  was  proposed  to  him,  "  No  one  ought  to  be 
expected  to  make  a  porpoise  of  himself."  Besides 
such  a  course  would  not  be  the  right  one  even  in 
the  interest  of  the  pupil. 

The  aim  is  to  get  back  to  Nature — and  to  natural 
movements,  and  happily  there  are  various  ways  of 
doing  this.  The  best  way  is  of  course  to  reproduce 
the  natural  environment  as  far  as  may  be  in  the 
class-room.  The  growing  child  climbs,  runs,  wrestles. 
At  a  very  small  cost  ladders  and  ropes  could  be 
fixed  even  in  an  ordinary  schoolroom.  In  hanging 
from  the  hands  the  veins  of  the  spine  become  stretched, 
and  the  current  through  them  is  hastened.  No  one 
who  understands  anything  at  all  about  the  structure 
of  the  human  nervous  system  can  fail  to  see  how 
this  must  lessen  nervous  fatigue.  Then,  in  this  posi- 
tion the  muscles  which  connect  thorax  and  arms  are 
strongly  exercised.  As  the  child  swings  on  one  hand 
or  another  the  chest  expands,  and  a  great  supply  of 
air  flows  towards  this  region.  Climbing,  hanging, 
and  heaving  movements  form  the  corner-stone  of  Ling's 
system,  and  to  get  these,  and  equivalents  of  these,  he 
exercised  the  greatest  ingenuity.     The  entire  absence 


ORAL  TRAINING.  53 

of  any  kind  of  apparatus  did  not  prevent  him,  need 
not  prevent  any  teacher,  from  giving  the  exercises 
that  develop  the  respiratory  powers.  The  stretching 
both  arms  upward,  sideways,  etc.,  have  the  same  effect 
as  the  true  heaving  movements.  And  the  teacher 
ought  to  vary  and  adapt  these  so  that  every  part  of 
the  lungs  is  exercised.  '  His  knowledge  and  zeal  are 
to  make  good  to  the  child  something  of  what  he  has 
lost  in  being  debarred  from  the  wild  free  life  of 
the  open. 

And  they  are  to  do  something  more  than  this. 

For  the  final  aim  of  such  exercises  is,  let  it  be 
repeated,  to  give  something  more  than  muscular  or 
brute  force.  It  is  to  give  the  staying  power  of  life — 
the  power  which  the  brute  cannot  possess.  This  power 
seems  to  imply  an  extraordinary  physical  activity, 
possible  only  in  highly  developed  organisms.  As 
respiration  grows  deeper  the  tidal  volume  of  air 
increases :  more  blood  passes  through  the  pulmonary 
vessels;  more  oxygen  is  taken  into  the  blood;  more 
energy  is  supplied  to  the  body.  The  brain  and  nerv- 
ous system  are  more  richly  nourished,  and  their  latent 
power  developed  suddenly.     Thus  the  breather  attains 


1  A  series  of  arch-flexion  and  heaving  movements  can  be  found 
in  Baron  Posse's  book  on  Educational  Gymnastics.  Publishers — Lee 
and  Shepart,  Boston. 


54  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

a  new  freedom — a  sense  of  moral  repose.  He  comes 
to  himself,  and  finds  self  to  be  something  greater, 
and  stronger  than  he  supposed.  The  temptations  of 
yesterday  lose  their  force,  because  he  has  new  force 
to  master  them.  The  sordid  and  ugly  aspects  of  his 
nature  disappear  under  the  mounting  tide  of  his  energy, 
as  the  rocks  disappear  under  the  rising  tide.  All  this 
the  subtle  Greek  knew,  not  by  hearsay,  but  by 
experience.  Wrestler,  teacher,  actor,  and  orator  desired 
breathing  power,  as  the  first  condition  of  moral 
and  physical  perfection.  No  price  was  too  great 
to  pay  for  the  power — on  which  so  many  others 
depended  1 

It  is  a  pity  that  we  do  not  follow  the  ancient  Greeks 
in  this  matter.  The  sea  washes  round  our  land,  and 
her  breezes  sweep  over  our  hills  and  moorlands ;  and 
yet  consumption  is  the  scourge  of  our  country.  And 
doctors,  orators,  singing-masters  report,  not  always 
very  re-assuringly,  on  the  condition  and  habits  of  John 
Smith. 

"His  chest  is  too  narrow,"  says  one. 

"He  does  not  sing  as  he  ought,"  cries  another. 

"  His  conduct  and  manners  are  not  what  they  should 
be,"  declares  a  third. 

To  the  first  we  may  make  answer:  "The  chest 
is    not  likely   to   develop    quite    independently  of  the 


ORAL  TRAINING.  55 

lungs."  To  the  second:  "It  is  not  likely  that  a 
child  can  sing  well,  if  he  has  but  a  scanty  supply 
of  the  raw  material  of  voice — to  wit,  breath."  And 
we  may  remind  the  third  that  all  human  weaknesses, 
and  brutishnesses  are  very  much  a  question  of 
vitality.  Just  as  a  child  who  hears  well  in  the 
sunshine  and  with  eyes  open  is  found  to  be  deaf 
when  he  is  in  the  dark,  so  many  children  are  cruel, 
unreasonable,  and  even  brutish  when  the  vitality  is 
lowered,  who  yet  become  tractable  and  intelligent 
when  the  river  of  life  runs  free  and  high  in  their 
veins.  Many  a  person  cannot  be  led  out  of  temptation 
save  by  being  raised  above  it  through  physical  culture, 
enriched  vitality,  and  the  enlarged  consciousness  which 
comes  with  these. 

So  much  for  breath — the  raw  material  of  voice.  It 
is  a  great  thing  to  have  plenty  of  it.  But  having  got 
it,  the  next  question  is  "What  are  we  to  do  with  it?" 
The  uneducated  person  uses  it  recklessly,  speaks  very 
loudly,  or  raises  the  pitch.  But,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
carrying  power  does  not  depend  on  the  volume  (or 
amplitude  of  the  vibrations).  Neither  does  it  depend 
on  pitch,  or  the  number  of  the  vibrations.  The  car- 
rying power  and  quality  of  a  voice  depend  on  form  — 
the  form  of  the  mouth  and  larynx. 


56  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

The  movements  of  the  tongue,  lips,  and  throat  are  so 
rapid  in  speech  that  very  few  people  except  voice  trainers 
analyse  them,  or  think  of  them  at  all.  It  is  only  when 
we  have  to  learn  a  new  language  (not  merely  the  gram- 
mar of  a  new  language)  that  we  realize  that  the  form  of 
the  mouth  etc.  has  anything  to  do  with  the  quality 
of  the  sounds  we  make.  And  yet  no  art  illustrates 
so  forcibly  as  does  the  art  of  speech  that  form  is 
more  than  force,  that  form  conditions  force.  Above 
and  below  the  vocal  chords  are  air-passages  which  act 
as  resonators  or  resounding  chambers.  In  speech  the 
resonance  chambers  are  numerous  and  vary  much  in 
form.  They  intensify  some  tones  over  others;  they 
check,  too,  and  modify  tones,  and  all  this  depends 
on  form.  The  trained  singer  or  speaker  gains  control 
over  the  muscles  so  that  the  shape  of  the  throat  and 
larynx  is  modified  at  will,  and  this  power  becomes 
at  last  involuntary.  He  exercises  it  without  conscious 
effort,  his  speaking  and  singing  organs  have  become 
refined,  so  that  he  has  a  perfected  instrument  at  his 
service. 

Children  do  not  of  course  learn  to  speak  by  thinking 
of  the  form  of  larynx  or  mouth.  They  learn  by 
hearing  other  people  speak  and  by  imitating  their 
sounds  and  movements.  At  school  the  hearing  sense  is 
trained  by  means  of  the  Ear-test.     But  the  ear-test,  and 


ORAL  TRAINING.  57 

indeed  the  singing-lesson  is  a  small  part  of  the  child's 
vocal  and  oral  education.  This  education  is  carried 
on — not  during  one  hour  in  the  day,  but  during  every 
hour  in  the  day  through  imitation.  He  listens  to 
the  voices  around  him,  and  copies  them  faithfully, 
making  all  the  movements  necessary  in  order  to  re- 
produce what  he  hears. 

Here,  for  example,  is  a  class  of  children  who  have 
been  taught  by  a  lady  whose  voice  is  rather  cracked. 
Lo  1  All  the  children  have  the  same  cracked  voice — 
every  tone  and  trick  of  it  faithfully  reproduced.  Here 
is  another  group  of  children  whose  singing  mistress 
is  old.  Close  your  eyes  and  you  will  hear  a  chorus 
of  aged  voices— the  little  rogues  might  be  grand- 
fathers! Go  into  the  slums  and  you  will  hear  baby- 
voices  that  are  already  harsh;  in  the  class-rooms  of 
a  well-organized  kindergarten  for  upper-class  children 
you  may  listen  to  the  sweet  tones  of  children  who 
have  had  good  vocal  examples  to  copy.  Children 
reproduce  the  tones  they  hear;  and  as  tone  and 
inflection  are  the  expression  ol  feeling,  they  doubtless 
share  in  so  doing  the  emotional  life  of  the  persons 
around  them.  So  that  voice  production  has,  from 
whatever  point  of  view  we  look  at  it,  an  enormous 
moral  influence. 

Everyone  admits  that  the  voice,  and  the  inflections 


58  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

of  the  voice  express  feeling.  A  few  trivial  words 
may  have  enormous  importance  through  the  inflection 
of  the  voice  that  accompanies  it.  It  is  the  heart  itself 
—  the  soul — that  unveils  itself  and  communicates  itself 
in  the  tones  of  the  voice.  And  everyone,  even  the 
most  ignorant  person,  knows  this,  and  is  sensitive  in 
vocal  matters.  There  is  nothing  a  man  or  woman 
resents  so  much  as  that  his  own  social  equals  should 
speak  more  beautifully  than  himself.  If  one  factory 
girl,  for  example,  dresses  more  tastefully  than  another 
her  companions  do  not  condemn  her  for  this.  She  may 
even  learn  to  draw,  to  embroider,  to  play  on  the 
piano, — she  may  marry  above  her  and  no  one  will  be 
jealous.  But  if  her  voice  becomes  musical,  and  she 
begins  to  speak  beautifully — that  is  another  matter. 
Her  old  friends  are  estranged.  Even  her  mother  is 
indignant — feels  that  her  daughter  has  escaped  from 
her.  And  this  feeling  has  a  very  real  justification. 
The  changed  voice  does  indicate  changed,  or  at  least, 
new  feeling.  It  indicates,  too,  a  new  understanding, 
and  therefore  (in  so  far  as  the  uneducated  mother 
is  concerned)  new  misunderstanding.  Between  friends, 
between  classes,  between  strangers  who  wish  to  draw 
close  to  one  another  the  first  spoken  word  betrays  all 
that  divides. 

Voice  culture  is  therefore  one  of  the  first  conditions 


ORAL  TRAINING.  59 

of  growing  sympathy.  Mou-mou,  the  dumb  giant  of 
Tourgenieff,  loved  a  dog  and  a  woman.  He  drowned 
the  dog,  terrified  the  woman,  and  was  never  able  to 
love  any  other  creature.  Doubtless,  (however  pregnant 
silence  may  be)  the  feelings  we  cannot  express  in  any 
way  tend  to  become  weakened,  and  to  be  lost  entirely 
at  last.  While  those  we  express  even  imperfectly 
are  shared  by  others,  become  our  own  in  a  new 
way — and  give  rise  to  feelings  of  a  still  higher  and 
complex  kind. 

"  But  how  are  you  to  give  this  culture,"  asks 
Mrs.  Smith. 

The  answer  has  been  given  already  as  far  as  children 
are  concerned.  We  must  give  them  good  models  to 
copy.  Hitherto  we  have  considered  voice  culture  too 
much  as  a  thing  for  singers  only.  We  have  forgotten 
that  it  is  through  the  speaking,  not  the  singing  voice 
that  the  most  important  vocal  education  of  our  race  is 
given.  And  so,  while  we  listen  with  delight  to  the 
great  concert-Queen,  we  forget  to  listen  to  the  woman 
who  trains  and  teaches  John  Smith.  Perhaps  we  might 
never  remember  that  she  had  a  voice  at  all  but  that 
the  throat-doctors  remind  us  of  it.  Board  School 
Laryngitis  (which  is  not  confined  to  Board  Schools, 
but  it  is  common  in  all  elementary  schools)  is  the 
name  given,  not  to  one  disease,  but  to  a  group  of  throat 


6o  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

diseases  peculiar  to  teachers.  "  One  form  of  this  dis- 
ease," writes  Dr.  Greville  McDonald,  "appears  at  first 
to  be  ordinary  chronic  laryngitis.  But  as  it  develops 
it  reveals,  not  merely  its  own  nature,  but  its  origin. 
Capillaries  appear  on  the  upper  surface  of  the  chords, 
which  instead  of  being  of  a  pearly  whiteness,  have  a 
sodden  appearance.  The  fine,  sharp  margins  are 
rounded.  The  vessels  enlarge,  the  base  of  the  ary- 
tenoid becomes  swollen,  and  the  voice  of  the  patient 
becomes  rough  and  hoarse.  In  some  cases  the  voice  is 
entirely  lost.  The  treatment  is  difficult,  as  the  capil- 
laries are  liable  to  inflammation  after  the  operation, 
and  even  where  only  one  is  touched  the  patient  may 
become  aphonic." 

Another  species  of  teacher's  throat  disease  is  called 
the  hypertrophic.  The  growths  are  on  the  margin  of  the 
vocal  chords.  These  growths  were  called  by  Stoerk, 
"Singers  nodules".  Dr.  Greville  McDonald  tells  us 
that  he  has  never  seen  them  in  singers'  throats,  but 
only  in  the  throats  of  teachers.  Another  throat  special- 
ist tabulated  twenty-seven  cases  among  voice-users.  Of 
these  twenty-seven  persons  only  six  were  singers,  and 
not  all  of  the  singers  were  trained.  It  is  not  to 
excessive  use,  but  to  unskilled  use,  of  the  voice  that 
we  owe  the  rapid  spread  of  throat  disease.  A  much 
used,  well-used  voice  is  like  an  old  violin. 


ORAL  TRAINING.  61 

The  modern  class-room  is  too  often  a  noisy  place. 
It  looks  out  perhaps  on  a  thoroughfare  or  street  where 
carts  and  carriages  are  always  passing.  The  atmosphere 
is  chalky.  The  whole  environment  unfavourable  to 
the  speaker. 

For  one  can  no  more  speak  beautifully  on  a  back- 
ground of  noise  than  one  can  draw  on  a  background 
of  daubs  and  scribblings. 

"The  remedy,"  cry  some,  "lies  in  lessening  the  oral 
work  of  the  teachers." 

Certainly  the  average  teacher  speaks  too  much.  But 
to  lessen  her  work  is  no  remedy.  If  the  human 
voice  is  a  thing  to  be  got  rid  of,  if  we  can  supplant 
it  by  something  better,  then  we  might  say  "  let  us 
have  as  little  oral  work  as  possible."  But  the  human 
voice  is  not  a  thing  to  be  dispensed  with,  or  sup- 
planted.    For  nothing  can  take  its  place. 

The  human  body  transforms  the  movements  com- 
municated to  it  from  without,  with  variations  and 
modifications  which  are  determined  by  its  own  molec- 
ular constitution.  This  molecular  constitution  varies 
in  different  individuals,  and  therefore  every  individual 
re-acts  in  a  specific  way  to  the  different  excitation  she 
receives  from  without.  Some  are  peculiarly  sensitive  to 
excitations  of  smell,  some  to  those  of  colour,  and  a  large 
number  react  in  a  peculiar  way  to  all  excitations  of  sound. 


62  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

Agreeable  and  gay  sounds  excite  the  motor  centres, 
and  raise  the  vital  energy ;  sad,  and  depressive  music 
has  the  opposite  effect,  and  should  therefore  be  avoided 
in  schools.  But  the  impressions  received  in  hearing 
are  in  the  majority  of  persons  very  lasting  and  peculiar 
in  their  effects.  They  involve  a  vibration  of  nerves 
more  numerous,  more  delicate,  and  more  distinct  than 
those  connected  with  any  other  sense. 

This  being  so,  it  is  important — 

First — to  provide  what  we  may  call  a  good  aural 
environment  for  the  teacher — that  is  to  say  a  pure 
and  still  atmosphere. 

In  the  second  place — to  give  the  training  which 
will  make  her  oral  work  easy  and  effectual. 

Thirdly — School  Boards  and  Managers  ought  to  aim 
at  making  the  classes  smaller,  so  that  every  child  may 
speak  as  well  as  listen. ' 

And  finally,  wherever  a  foreign  language,  such 
as  French,  is  taught  to  young  children  it  should  be 
taught  orally  and  not  out  of  books.  The  physical 
exercises  necessary  in  order  to  make  the  child  able 
to  utter  the  new  sounds  should  be  taken  as  naturally 

1  It  is  noticeable  to-day  that  children  use  a  veiled  voice  in  speaking 
to  the  teacher.  In  the  play-grounds  the  voices  are  often  rough.  In 
reading  an  artificial  intonation  is  common — indeed  general— the  child 
copying  the  teacher's  inflections,  though  his  own  feeling  has  no  relation 
to  them  whatever! 


ORAL  TRAINING.  63 

and  inevitably  as  any  other  part  of  physical  gymnastics. 
And  no  teacher  should  be  engaged  to  teach  a  lan- 
guage who  has  not  learned  to  speak  it  well. 

In  this  way  oral  culture  would  be  raised  to  its  right 
place  in  education,  and  its  effects  would  be  seen  in  a 
sudden  increase  of  vigour,  in  new  refinement,  and 
growing  sympathy. 


CHAPTER    VI. 

MORAL  TRAINING. 

One  day  a  little  waif  of  seven,  having  committed 
every  other  sin  he  could  think  of,  proceeded  to  strangle 
himself  with  a  rope.  He  was  under  treatment  at  the 
time  in  the  hospital,  for  a  disease  which  was  entirely 
the  result  of  dirt.  The  nurse  coming  suddenly  into 
the  room,  found  him  stark  and  black!  Hastily  sum- 
moning aid,  she  cut  the  rope  through,  and  began  to 
take  measures  for  restoring  the  child  to  consciousness. 

"How  unhappy  he  must  have  been— poor  little  fel- 
low," she  said  at  last  to  the  doctor  who  was  helping  her. 

The  doctor  was  watching  his  patient :  and  he  had 
just  assured  himself  that  that  small  personage  enjoying 
the  drama  of  resuscitation,  was  prolonging  it  by  con- 
tinuing to  execute  the  movements  of  a  person  in 
extremis,  long  after  such  manifestations  were  neces- 
sary or  natural.  In  this  dramatic  representation  he 
was  very  successful,  thanks  to  his  minute  observation 
of  a  dying  man  in  the  ward. 

"Unhappy — not  he,"  said  the  doctor.  And  he  pro- 
ceeded to  intimate  emphatically  to  his  young  patient, 


Children  of  the  Street. 


MORAL  TRAINING.  65 

that  the  time  of  danger  being  over,  he  could  no  longer 
receive  the  ministrations  due  to  the  dying,  but  must 
prepare,  if  his  convulsions  continued,  to  receive  atten- 
tions of  quite  another  order.  Upon  which  the  young 
actor  sat  up,  and  looked  around  him  with  steady 
nerves  and  some  curiosity. 

Visitors  came  to  see  him.  All  curious,  all  sym- 
pathetic they  stood  around  his  bed. 

"Why  did  you  do  this  terrible  thing  ?"  asked  a  lady. 

The  waif's  eyes  twinkled. 

"Ool  I  wanted  to  see  what  Hell  was  like,"  said  he. 

Perhaps  the  child's  words  were  true.  Curiosity  does 
exist  in  beings  who  seem  to  be  too  coarsely  organized 
ever  to  experience  fear.  According  to  the  registrations 
of  the  electric  algometer  with  which  pain  is  measured 
in  millimetres  upon  the  sliding  scale  of  Du  Bois- 
Raymond,  the  tactual  sensibility  of  the  criminal  is 
34  mm.  as  compared  with  50  mm.  in  the  average  man. 
He  fears  less,  partly  because  he  feels  less  than  others. 
He  is  less  capable  of  even  physical  pain.  This  fact 
was  well  illustrated  in  the  case  of  this  same  little  waif. 
Owing  to  a  scalp  disease  which  had  been  engendered 
by  neglect,  it  was  necessary  to  have  what  would 
have  been  a  painful  operation  to  an  ordinary  child 
performed  on  him  every  day.  He,  however,  showed 
no   sign    of  fear  or  pain — whistled  under  the  doctor's 

5 


66  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

hand.  Some  may  say,  "This  was  bravado — or  for- 
titude." But  the  doctor  was  of  opinion  that  it  was 
neither.  He  was  convinced  that  the  child's  indifference 
was  the  result  of  insensibility.  That  he  suffered  not  at  all. 
And  this  physical  obtuseness  found  of  course  its  parallel 
in  his  mental  life.  Nothing  disturbed  him — nothing 
affrighted  him.  No  saint,  no  stoic  could  have  been 
calmer  under  "trying"  circumstances.  Thus  it  seems 
as  though  the  hard  and  cruel  person  is  bound  to 
escape  the  worst  torments — being  incapable  of  expe- 
riencing them. 

In  order  to  understand  the  conduct  of  another  we 
must  first  have  some  notion  of  his  condition.  The 
causes  are  buried  deep  in  the  organic  life,  as  the  roots 
of  a  tree  are  buried  in  the  ground.  Even  the  smallest 
change  taking  place  in  that  obscure  world  may  be 
followed  by  the  most  bewildering  consequences.  A 
dose  of  potassium  bromide,  the  application  of  a  magnet 
to  the  arm,  or  neck,  a  slight  change  of  temperature — 
and  lo  !  the  character  of  an  individual  seems  to  change. 
And  as  it  is  impossible  for  us  to  know  the  condition 
or,  if  you  will,  to  follow  the  condition  of  another 
unerringly,  or  even  to  be  conscious  of  all  that  is  taking 
place  within  ourselves  at  any  moment,  we  cannot 
hope  to  find  a  universal  panacea  for  human  sin  and 
frailty.     The   greatest  teachers   have   understood  this 


MORAL  TRAINING.  67 

very  well.  "All  cannot  receive  this  saying,"  said 
the  Nazarene.  And  again,  very  sternly,  "  Give  not 
that  which  is  holy  unto  the  dogs."  Yet  for  all  that 
the  seed  was  to  be  scattered  broad-cast — to  lie  in  stony 
places,  to  struggle  among  thorns.  After  all,  the  crum- 
bled rock  will  make  rich  soil  at  last.  "  Adieu,  marbre, 
tu  seras  fleur,"  said  the  dying  Seraphita.  "Adieu, 
stony  heart,"  the  great  Teacher  may  have  said,  looking 
down  the  ages  and  beholding  a  thousand  generations 
struggling,  falling,  hoping,  rising,  groaning  and  travailing 
in  ineffectual  virtue  and  returning  desire  and  repent- 
ance till  the  race  was  born  that  could  only  obey  the 
higher  law.  "Adieu,  stony  heart.  Thou  shalt  blos- 
som at  last." 

The  highest  Law  has  been  given,  but  the  people 
must  receive  it  as  they  can,  and  interpret  it  as  they 
may.  The  interpretation  is  often  grotesque,  but  seldom 
quite  insincere.  The  Spaniards  of  the  Inquisition  upheld 
Christian  principles  by  torturing  helpless  persons  and 
then  putting  them  to  death.  But  there  is  no  evidence 
that  all  the  Spaniards  were  hypocrites.  "  Ah  I  "  cried  a 
converted  king,  little  given  to  concealing  his  feelings, 
on  hearing  the  story  of  the  Crucifixion — "  Ahl  If  I  had 
been  there  with  my  brave  Franks  they  would  not  have 
dared  to  kill  him !  "  In  the  heart  of  this  naif  barbarian 
and   his   warriors    love   took   the    form  of  wrath  and 


68  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

desire  for  vengeance  on  those  who  had  destroyed  the 
Saviour  of  the  world.  Such  primitive  men  could  not 
apparently  even  conceive  of  a  negative  morality.  No 
moralist  could  have  walled  up  their  flaming  souls 
with  prohibitions.  To  love  was  to  act.  Every  passion 
that  rose  in  their  hearts  expressed  itself  suddenly,  in 
actions  that  were  almost  reflexes.  And  this  is  exactly 
what  happens  to-day.  We  are  no  more  ready  than  were 
the  people  of  the  first  century  for  negative  morality 
and  a  gospel  of  mere  abstention.  Secretly  or  publicly, 
gaily  or  sorrowfully,  eagerly  or  patiently  we  all  act — 
and  cannot  cease  from  activity.  For  our  energy  may  be 
transformed,  but  is  not  to  be  suppressed.  "  Thou  shalt 
not"  is  written  on  the  door  of  every  prison,  and  yet  the 
great  tide  of  vice  and  crime  ebbs  and  flows  as  rhyth- 
mically as  the  ocean.  The  number  of  scandals,  murders, 
thefts  etc.  in  the  coming  year  may  be  safely  predicted. 
The  moralist  knows  that  the  water  will  rise,  though 
he  is  seated,  like  Canute,  by  the  shore,  issuing  mandates 
or  advice  in  the  hearing  of  an  admiring  but  anxious 
retinue. 

"Thou  shalt  not,"  says  the  teacher  to  his  rosy- 
cheeked  urchins.  And  the  spirit  of  mischief  retires 
into  the  depths  of  their  hearts,  whence  he  will  re-issue 
presently  like  a  giant  refreshed.  All  the  flogging 
at   Eton  did  not  make  the  boys  kind  to  their  '  fags ', 


MORAL  TRAINING.  69 

though  it  probably  kept  them  within  bounds  in  the 
class-room.  The  day  of  mere  preaching  is  over. 
Doubtless  the  day  of  formal  punishment  will  follow 
it  at  last. 

In  the  infant  the  vegetative  life  predominates.  The 
whole  area  of  consciousness — if  he  can  be  said  to 
have  any  consciousness — is  filled  up  with  sensations 
of  cold  or  warmth,  hunger  or  satiety,  comfort  or  dis- 
comfort. 

His  eyes  are  open  during  a  short  period  every 
day — but  their  sense  is  shut.  They  gaze  vacantly 
on  everything.  Every  sound  and  sight  is  mingled 
and  lost  in  a  chaos  out  of  which  nothing  emerges. 

Change  and  progress  are  heralded  in  a  new  sep- 
arating out  of  one  thing  from  the  many.  One  day 
the  infant's  eyes  rest  vaguely  on  some  separate  moving 
light  or  glittering  object.  He  turns  his  head  on  hearing 
a  voice  or  a  noise.  Something  is  rising  out  of  the 
void.  The  mother  is  delighted  that  a  new  epoch  of 
life  has  been  entered  on.  "He  is  beginning  to  notice," 
cries  she. 

How  does  the  normal  child  begin  to  notice?  The 
unhappy  mother  of  the  idiot  babe  often  asks  herself 
this  question,  looking  anxiously  at  her  own  offspring. 
He  does  not  notice.     He  seems  to  be  always  awake. 


70  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

(Some  idiot  children  seem  to  be  always  asleep  1) 
Always  wailing,  always  restless.  Nothing  lulls  him, 
nothing  arrests  his  aimless  activities.  But  the  normal 
child  wakes  and  sleeps.  Then  one  day  he  is  interrupted. 
He  listens.     He  sees. 

This  event,  so  dramatic  and  astounding  to  the  mother, 
is  a  culmination ;  it  is  the  last  of  a  long  series  of  events. 
Below  it  and  behind  it  there  are  myriad  nervous  act- 
ivities and  movements  which,  multiplying  and  rolling 
on,  as  it  were,  like  waves,  have  at  last  touched  the  high- 
water  mark  where  consciousness  is  tossed  upward  like 
spray.  The  unresting  waves  may  now  be  charmed 
into  stillness.  The  innumerable  nervous  activities  dis- 
seminated throughout  the  body,  and  translated  hitherto 
only  into  a  vague  sense  of  comfort  or  discomfort,  appear 
to  receive  a  momentary  check.  Progress  is  manifested 
by  an  interruption. 

In  a  more  advanced  stage  of  existence  progress 
takes  place  in  much  the  same  way.  Stories  of 
sudden  conversion  illustrate  for  us  this  fact  in  a  dra- 
matic way.  Saul,  breathing  forth  wrath  and  threat- 
ening, sees  a  light  and  falls  down  helpless.  The 
unbelieving  John  is  stricken  dumb.  It  is  not  neces- 
sary here,  however,  to  discuss  instances  of  extraor- 
dinary arrest— though  these  are  common  enough 
even  today. 


MORAL  TRAINING.  71 

Let  us  take  the  case  of  a  child  under  no  conviction  of 
sin  whatever.  Here  is  a  child  whose  name  is  William. 
He  is  eight  years  old — the  son  of  criminal  parents. 
The  criminal  is  usually  weak-  a.  negative  type  of  being, 
violent  because  he  follows  the  line  of  the  least  inter- 
nal resistance.  William  steals,  swears,  lies,  and  be- 
haves like  an  animal.  He  spares  no  weak  creature 
who  falls  into  his  power.  When  a  playmate  offends 
him  in  ever  so  small  a  way  he  strikes  with  all  his 
might.  All  his  defensive  and  aggressive  actions  are 
swift  and  violent — swift  as  the  winking  of  an  eyelid — 
violent  as  the  knee-jerk.  One  cannot  say  of  such  ac- 
tions "They  are  immoral" — for  they  belong  to  the 
category  of  reflex  actions.  Nevertheless,  William  is 
capable  of  improvement.  He  can  progress — not 
through  the  preaching  of  negative  morality — but  through 
checks.  But  tvhat  can  check  him?  It  is  the  organism 
itself  which  will  have  to  be  interrupted.  For  in  speak- 
ing of  the  character  or  actions  of  any  being  we  are 
speaking  of  something  which  is  the  result  of  his  organic 
life.  The  surest  check,  indeed  it  may  be  the  only 
check,  is  one  which  will  arrest,  not  the  will,  but  the 
members.  And  what  is  it  that  suddenly  and  certainly 
arrests  the  muscles?  There  is  but  one  answer, — 
"  Emotion."  Emotion  can  modify  or  even  arrest  the 
organic  life.     It  is  the  great  interrupter — and  therefore 


72  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

the  first  (and  in  great  measure  the  last)  condition  of 
human  progress. 

People  understood  this  very  well  even  in  the  dark 
ages.  Never  did  they  understand  it  so  well  perhaps 
as  when  the  world  was  chill  with  fear,  and  darkened 
by  tyranny  1  For  indeed  fear  itself  is  the  most  pow- 
erful emotion  of  all  and  has  the  most  sudden  and 
violent  effect  on  the  organism.  The  emotion  called 
'grief  has  a  very  noticeable  effect  on  a  certain  group 
of  muscles.  But  under  the  influence  of  fear  all  the 
involuntary  muscles  are  affected.  During  the  first 
moments  the  heart  seems  to  beat  faster,  coming  to 
the  help  of  the  perturbed  brain,  but  this  rallying  of 
the  central  organ  does  not  last  long.  Ancient  patho- 
logists believed  that  the  blood  of  terrified  persons  ac- 
tually coagulated  in  the  veins.  The  whole  body  seems 
to  become  for  a  moment  frozen  and  still.  Terrorized 
creatures  often  stand  motionless  — unable  to  flee  even 
from  a  pursuer  whom  they  might  outrun.  And  we 
imply  all  this  when  we  say  "  He  was  transfixed  by 
fear,"  or  "He  was  struck  dumb  by  terror." 

It  appears  at  the  first  glance  as  if  Nature  was 
very  merciless  to  little  children.  For  they,  more 
than  grown-up  people,  are  liable  to  this  dread  emotion. 
Not  only  do  they  fear  (sometimes)  the  big  and  (in 
their  eyes)  powerful  persons  around  them,  the  teacher 


MORAL  TRAINING.  73 

who  can  punish,  the  father  and  mother  who  can  with- 
hold, but  their  little  hearts  and  minds  are  often  beset 
by  a  world  of  ghostly  terrors.  They,  like  the  savage, 
the  man  of .  primitive  type,  are  the  victims  of  many 
violent  emotions — but  especially  of  fear.  When  night 
falls  the  world  begins  to  be  for  them  a  place  of 
mystery.  The  clothes  hanging  on  the  nail  become 
a  dark  man.  The  bough  tapping  at  the  window  is 
an  awful  hand.  And  in  the  outer  darkness — what 
monsters  are  prowling!  Even  when  sleep  comes  the 
little  one  is  not  always  delivered.  The  most  blood- 
curdling dreams  of  all  are  those  we  have  dreamed  in 
our  childhood.  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  in  a  "  Chapter 
of  Dreams"  writes  of  his  own  dreadful  experiences 
as  follows.  "  When  as  a  child  he  (Stevenson) 
had  a  touch  of  fever  at  night  and  the  room 
swelled  and  shrank — the  poor  soul  was  very  well 
aware  of  what  must  follow,  and  struggled  hard  against 
the  approaches  of  that  slumber  which  was  the  begin- 
ning of  sorrows.  But  his  struggles  were  in  vain : 
sooner  or  later  the  night  hag  would  have  him  by 
the  throat,  and  pluck  him,  strangling  and  scream- 
ing, from  his  sleep . .  .  The  two  chief  troubles  of 
his  very  narrow  existence,  the  practical  and  every- 
day trouble  of  school-tasks  and  the  ultimate  and  airy 
one   of  hell  and  judgment,  were  confounded  together 


74  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

into  one  appalling  nightmare.  He  seemed  to  himself 
to  stand  before  the  great  white  throne ;  he  was  called 
on,  poor  little  devil,  to  recite  some  form  of  words, 
on  which  his  destiny  depended ;  his  tongue  stuck,  his 
memory  was  blank,  hell  gaped  for  him ;  and  he  would 
awake,  clinging  to  the  curtain  rod,  with  his  knees  to 
his  chin." 

Dreadful  as  this  emotion  is,  healthy  children  love  to 
induce  it.  They  take  a  certain  pleasure  in  thinking  of 
weird  places  and  things,  and  love  to  tremble  in  the 
twilight.  Ghost  stories  have  a  peculiar  charm  for  them, 
and  this  is  why  the  good-natured  unprincipled  nurse- 
maid tells  them  at  the  risk  of  losing  her  situation.  It 
would  almost  appear,  as  a  certain  American  writer 
has  remarked,  that  nature  encouraged  children  to  stim- 
ulate their  minds  and  intensify  their  sensations  by 
coquetting  with  an  emotion  which,  in  its  more  violent 
forms,  is  capable  of  inducing  death. 

And  indeed,  impersonal  fear — fear  induced  by  the 
mysteries  of  life  and  Nature — has  an  educative  func- 
tion. The  civilized  man,  having  experienced  great  fear, 
is  immediately  conscious  of  an  uplifting — an  idealiza- 
tion of  the  whole  nature.  His  mind  is  suddenly  clearer, 
like  the  atmosphere  after  storm ;  and  his  thoughts,  tem- 
porarily arrested,  begin  to  run  in  purer  and  broader 
channels.     The  evidence  of  this  uplifting  influence  may 


MORAL  TRAINING.  75 

be  traced  in  the  religious  feeling  of  the  primitive  man. 
The  little  child,  like  the  savage,  sees  the  world  as  a 
place  of  possible  terrors  and  phantoms.  He,  too,  is 
tormented  and  also  uplifted  by  fear.  Later  his  expe- 
riences are  less  poignant.  He  accommodates  himself 
to  his  environment,  just  as  his  vision  once  accom- 
modated itself  and  measured  the  size  and  distance  of 
things,  and  then  his  most  agonizing  fears,  like  his 
brightest  dreams,  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day. 
Yet  let  not  the  teacher  or  parent  dream  that  he  can 
inspire  a  fear  which  will  have  highly  educative  after- 
effects. That  was  the  mistake  of  those  who  threatened 
and  tortured,  and  "made  examples"  of  criminals.  No. 
The  fear  of  man  is  destructive.  It  is  an  impure  emotion, 
it  is  always  mingled,  on  the  side  of  the  inspirer,  if 
not  with  malice,  with  a  secret  gusto  accompanying 
the  use  of  power,  and  with  corresponding  humiliation 
and  the  impotent  desire  for  vengeance  on  the  part  of 
the  victim.  It  sullies  or  weakens  love  and  introduces 
division  into  the  mind.  Education  must  ever  be  ini- 
tiated by  the  introduction  of  checks  or  interruption, 
but  these  should  have  no  affinity  with  the  depres- 
sive emotions  of  fear  and  grief. 

Ruskin  in  one  of  his  later  works  makes  allusion  to 
a  certain  painting  by  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds.    The  sub- 


76  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

ject  is  a  beautiful  little  baby- girl,  with  her  hand  on 
the  head  of  a  dog.  Both  have  evidently  heard  a 
stranger's  step,  or  perhaps  seen  the  stranger  enter. 
For  the  child  is  still,  its  eyes  wide  with  wonder. 
The  dog,  however,  is  very  alert,  very  indignant.  He 
is  expressing  himself  vigorously,  and  it  is  clear  that 
the  stranger  has  not  interrupted  him.  The  higher  crea- 
ture, on  the  other  hand,  is  arrested. 

Wonder  holds  the  little  girl  in  suspense.  Invol- 
untarily she  attends  to  this  new  thing,  or  new  person. 
Involuntarily  the  normal  little  child  begins  to  attend 
to  anything  that  astonishes  it,  or  awakes  curiosity 
(which  is  a  kind  of  wonder).  By-and-bye  teachers 
will  begin  to  make  great  demands  on  this  faculty  of 
Attention.  They  realize  that  on  its  development  the 
whole  mental  life  mainly  depends.  But  indeed  they 
might  go  further  than  this — for  the  moral  and  spiritual 
life  also  depend  very  largely  on  the  faculty  of  attention. 

Attention  is  at  last  voluntary.  But  voluntary  atten- 
tion cannot  of  cause  be  developed  from  nothing. 
It  springs  out  of  the  involuntary  as  the  stem  springs 
from  the  root,  or  the  root  from  the  stem.  So  it  is 
important  that  in  the  beginning  of  life  the  emotion 
called  Wonder  should  not  be  dispelled  too  quickly, 
nor  too  often.  The  child  should  not  be  distracted  by 
having   his   attention    drawn  to  a  great  many  things. 


MORAL  TRAINING.  77 

Neither  should  he  be  interrupted  in  the  contemplation 
of  any  harmless  object,  animal,  or  process  which  has 
aroused  his  involuntary  attention. 

Sometimes  children  are  attracted  by  scenes  and 
objects  which  grown-up  people  do  not  consider  at  all 
absorbing  or  instructive.  This  does  not  prove  that 
the  child  will  derive  no  benefit  from  attending  to 
them.  I  have  in  my  mind  now  a  little  girl  of  three, 
whose  great  delight  it  was  to  steal  into  a  laundry  on 
washing  days.  Finger  in  mouth,  she  gazed  at  the 
dingy  clothes  turning  white  as  the  laundry  women 
rubbed,  and  lifted,  and  wrung,  and  at  the  darkening 
water  which  had  affected  this  great  change.  This 
power    of  the  water  appeared  very  wonderful  to  her. 

Water  made  clothes  clean  1  If  a  goddess  had  risen 
out  of  the  soap-suds  it  could  not  have  been  more 
amazing!  But  now  the  tubs  are  suddenly  emptied. 
The  windows  are  opened  for  a  few  moments  to  let 
the  steam  escape ;  and  the  laundry-women,  their  linen 
skirts  tucked  up,  fill  the  tubs  again  and  begin  to  lift, 
and  roll  and  wring  the  snowy  linen  in  cold  blue 
water.  At  this  point  the  little  one's  pleasure  always 
became  so  keen  that  she  took  her  finger  out  of  her 
mouth,  and  running  across  the  damp  floor,  stood  on 
tip-toe,  and  embraced  one  of  the  tubs  with  her  arms. 

Whereupon  she  was  summarily  banished.     In  later 


78  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

years  she  displayed  a  wonderful  power  of  washing 
clothes  so  that  they  looked  like  snow-drifts.  No  one 
ever  gave  her  a  lesson.  There  was  no  occasion  for 
her  to  wash,  yet  she  perfectly  understood,  and  occa- 
sionally practised,  the  art  of  a  laundry  woman.  "How 
has  she  learned?"  her  mother  often  asked  wonderingly. 

Doubtless  she  learned  through  giving  attention — 
involuntary  attention — attention  sustained  by  emotion. 

This  faculty  is  the  basis  of  all  success. 

And  it  is,  let  it  be  said  once  more,  the  first  condition, 
not  merely  of  mental,  but  also  of  moral  advance. 

This  little  girl  who  had  such  delight  in  looking  on 
at  washing  was  not  at  all  attentive  to  the  cat.  True 
she  played  with  him  a  great  deal,  and  knew  that  he 
had  white  feet  and  a  black  coat.  But  she  had  not  yet 
realized  very  clearly  that  he  had  feelings,  for  she  carried 
him  squeezed  under  her  arm,  pulled  his  tail,  and  let  him 
drop  heedlessly.  She  did  all  this,  however,  not  because 
she  was  naturally  unkind,  but  because  she  had  given 
attention  as  yet  to  only  a  very  few  states  of  existence. 

Many  grown-up  people  act  in  the  same  way — not 
merely  to  cats,  but  to  their  fellow-men  and  women. 
The  American  looks  on  the  Mongol  and  sees  no  reason 
why  he  should  live.  He  once  looked  on  the  Negro 
and  saw  no  reason  why  he  should  not  suffer.  A 
certain  type  of  Anglo-Saxon  looks  at  the  dark,  delicate 


MORAL  TRAINING.  79 

Indian  and  feels  only  contempt.  That  is  because  they 
have  never  given  any  attention  to  the  living  Negro — 
much  less  to  the  silent  son  of  the  miraculous  East! 
If  they  had  attended  to  him,  they  would  have  thrilled 
in  the  presence  of  one  who  embodied  for  them  the 
philosophies  of  the  Orient,  the  wisdom  of  the  twice-born. 
But  as  it  is  they  do  not  even  realize  that  the  Indian 
or  American  is  actually  alive,  any  more  than  the  little 
girl  realizes  that  her  cat  is  suffering.  There  is  no 
subject  which  may  be  sifted  from  all  others  and  called 
Moral  Training.  For  our  moral  code  tosses  on  the 
ebbing  and  flowing  tide  of  our  sympathy,  and  sympathy 
itself  is  bounded  by  knowledge  and  power  of  attention, 
as  the  waves  are  bounded  by  the  sea-wall. 

We  must  begin  then  by  training  the  child  to  attend 
to  living  creatures — to  the  world  of  animals  and  the 
world  of  men. 

The  big,  modern,  elementary  school,  is  not,  we 
must  confess  an  ideal  place  in  which  to  make  acquaint- 
ance with  animal  life.  For,  in  order  to  attend  with 
great  pleasure  to  a  living  creature,  one  must  see  it  in 
its  own  natural  home.  The  fields,  the  woods  and 
meadows,  and  the  brook-sides  are  the  best  school- 
rooms! But  limited  as  we  are  by  climatic  and  other 
conditions  we  are  often  obliged  to  teach  and  learn  in 
less  delightful  places. 


8o  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

Sometimes  a  happy  conjunction  of  circumstances 
allows  a  child,  or  even  a  whole  village-full  of  children 
to  enjoy  the  advantages  of  the  ideal  school,  and  gives 
them  also  the  sympathetic  teacher  who  can  open  their 
eyes  to  the  beauty  of  their  own  fields  and  their  inha- 
bitants. On  the  borders  of  a  moorland  district  in  York- 
shire stands  a  school-house — a  broad,  low  building,  with 
its  back  to  the  heathery  wolds,  but  its  front-windows 
looking  out  on  a  wide  expanse  of  grassy  slopes  flanked 
by  wooded  hills.  The  wall  that  encloses  the  play- 
ground is  not  bare  and  new,  but  old  and  moss-grown, 
and  overlooked  by  a  range  of  wooden  outhouses. 
Pigeons  fly  out  from  dove-cot  and  alight  in  the  play- 
ground, fan-tailed  pigeons,  pouters,  and  others  of  a 
rarer  breed.  They  are  so  tame  that  they  perch  on 
the  stranger's  shoulder  and  run  close  by  his  feet.  No 
wonder.  They  have  been  fed,  and  caressed,  and  loved 
by  children  everyone  of  whom  considers  herself  in  the 
light  of  a  protector.  A  little  grey  donkey  stands  with  his 
nose  on  the  fence  of  the  field  opposite.  And  across  the 
grass-plot  toils  a  big  tortoise  with  a  string  attached  to 
a  leg,  which  does  not  prevent  him  from  making  long 
pilgrimages  across  the  road  and  into  the  shrubbery  at 
the  foot  of  the  valley.  Living  creatures — some  lovely, 
some  curious,  inhabit  the  schoolmaster's  garden;  and 
sometimes   a    child    goes    up    the   narrow    path,    with 


MORAL  TRAINING.  81 

sparkling  eyes,  and  walking  quickly.  A  new  animal  is 
to  be  introduced  1  It  is  natural  to  suppose  that  children 
enjoying  such  educational  advantages  should  learn  a 
great  deal  about  animals.  But  that  is  only  a  minor 
"result."  The  more  important  result  is  a  moral  one. 
Through  attending  to  creatures — watching  them,  tending 
them,  loving  them,  and  at  last  painting  or  drawing 
pictures  of  them,  the  child  escapes  from  the  cruel  in- 
stinct that  once  led  him  to  kill  or  torture. 

Every  emotion  is  accompanied  by  a  flow  of  blood 
to  the  brain.  Every  intellectual  occupation  is  accom- 
panied by  a  flow  of  blood  to  the  same  organ.  When 
the  blood-flow  to  what  we  call  the  higher  centres  is 
abundant,  it  must  be  withdrawn  from  the  lower.  A 
child  is  disciplined  therefore  by  everything  that  he 
attends  to. 

Artificial  or  imposed  discipline  is  a  poor  thing  in 
comparison.  Here  nothing  is  destroyed — but  rather 
transformed.  The  child  is  literally  working  out  his 
own  transformation. 

It  is  often  difficult  to  introduce  children  to  the  world 
of  animals.  There  is  another  task  which  is  also  difficult, 
perhaps  impossible,  but  always  imperative.  They  must 
be  trained  to  attend  to  one  another,  and  perhaps  in 
the  end  even  to  love  one  another.  If  we  have  not 
this   goal   in   view — however  distant — it  is  a  mockery 


82  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

to  build  schools  at  all.  We  know  by  sad  experience 
that  few  grown-up  people  can  obey  the  "  new  command- 
ment." They  are  not  ready — yet.  But  long  before 
we  gain  perfect  faith  and  power  in  obedience,  we 
believe  in  the  Law.  In  no  school,  in  no  church  does 
the  preacher  or  teacher  refuse  to  say,  "Love  one 
another." 

It  might  be  well  if,  before  expecting  obedience  to 
such  a  command,  we  should  first  remove  as  much  as 
possible  all  that  causes  the  children  to  hate,  dislike, 
despise,  or  avoid  one  another. 

In  the  first  place,  all  the  children  should  be  clean. 

It  is  only  in  modern  days  that  the  need  of  baths 
began  to  be  seriously  felt  by  the  people  of  this  coun- 
try. Our  fore-fathers  washed  very  little.  The  Romans 
had  a  magnificent  system  of  water  carriage,  and  in  the 
large  baths  the  people  met  as  in  a  great  market-place, 
carrying  on  discussions  and  settling  business  near  the 
cool  plashing  waters  that  rose  over  the  marble  steps. 
Water  was  for  them  a  luxury  as  well  as  a  necessity, 
a  thing  indispensable  for  health,  but  also  for  pleasure. 

The  subtle  Easterns  regarded  it  more  seriously. 
They  looked  on  washing  as  a  devotional  exercise. 
To  be  holy  one  must  be  clean.  Before  prayer  came 
ablution.  Thus  the  idea  of  water  was  intimately  con- 
nected  in    their   minds  with  the  idea  of  inner  purity. 


MORAL  TRAINING.  83 

Even  the  Jews — the  most  worldly  of  all  the  religious 
Eastern  nations — did  not  regard  water  merely  as  the 
means  of  external  cleansing.  Moses  worked  out  a 
marvellous  system  of  hygiene  which  he  taught  to  the 
people  as  a  part  of  their  religion.  But  alas  1  modern 
Christians  of  even  the  most  orthodox  persuasion  do 
not  look  upon  washing  as  an  integral  part  of  the 
scheme  of  redemption— or  allude  to  it,  only  in  a  vague, 
symbolic  way — that  is  to  say,  in  a  way  that  divorces 
it  from,  instead  of  uniting  it  to,  everyday  life.  Thus 
a  large  number  of  pious  people  are  actually  very  dirty. 
"  It  is  difficult  to  go  near  some  of  our  people  with  the 
Holy  Sacrament,"  said  a  priest  the  other  day,  "they 
are  so  covered  with  vermin."  Thus  we  see  that  clean- 
liness, once  a  condition  of  holy  life,  is  now  held  to  be 
something  quite  secular  and  unimportant. 

Yet  it  is  not  unimportant.  Where  water  has  no 
other  spiritual  meaning  it  signifies  separation.  Here,  in 
a  London  park  this  morning,  the  baby-son  of  a  wealthy 
house  stood  to  look  at  another  baby-boy  playing  on 
the  grass.  The  child  of  wealth  was  lovely  to  see,  with 
his  soft,  golden  curls,  his  sweet  blue  eyes,  and  white 
garments.  As  lovely  perhaps,  under  all  the  dirt  and 
grime  was  the  dark-eyed  baby  of  the  gutter.  Those 
two  gazed  at  one  another  earnestly.  Then  advancing 
with  slow  steps,  each  held  out  his  tiny  hand  and  grasped 


84  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

the  other's.  It  was  very  pretty.  Even  the  nurse-maid 
(who  was  very  particular)  had  not  the  heart  to  reprove 
her  charge. 

Suddenly  the  nursling  of  wealth  released  his  hand 
and  looked  at  it.  A  frown  of  disgust  puckered  his 
forehead. 

"Nasty!  nasty  1"  he  cried  out,  and  turned  his  back 
on  his  new  friend,  who  stood  gazing  at  him  in  bewil- 
dered consternation,  quite  unable  to  account  for  this 
sudden  change. 

The  change  was  a  very  natural  one,  after  all.  The 
clean  child  was  offended,  not  with  his  new  friend — 
but  with  the  dirt  on  the  new  friend's  body.  His  own 
short  experience  of  dainty  life  and  cleanly  habits, 
and  the  dispositions  born  of  these,  ran  like  a  stream 
between  him  and  his  little  brother  of  the  gutter. 
But  the  gutter  child  saw  no  stream  dividing  them. 
He  probably  thought  in  his  baby  heart  that  his 
new  friend  was  very  unkind  and  very  fickle.  Water 
will  always  divide,  if  we  do  not  allow  all  to  use 
it — and  love  it. 

Every  new  school  should  be  furnished  with  a 
swimming-bath  in  the  basement.  Swimming  as  a  mere 
physical  exercise  is  of  the  first  importance.  For  in 
swimming  the  vital  organs — lungs,  heart  etc. — come 
well    into   play,    and  the  whole  system  is  braced  and 


MORAL  TRAINING.  85 

strengthened.  Moreover,  all  children — but  especially 
English  children — love  the  water.  And  as  joy  is  the 
best  stimulant,  the  exercise  they  take  in  the  bath  is 
taken  under  altogether  favourable  circumstances. 

The  duty  of  washing  should  be  taught  by  example 
— and  made  easy  by  the  presence  of  adequate  appli- 
ances. There  should  be  plenty  of  slipper-baths  which 
the  children  should  use  before  entering  the  swimming- 
bath.  The  hand-basins  should  be  deep,  and  fitted 
to  suit  the  height  of  the  scholars.  They  should  not 
be  placed  in  one  long  range,  but  fitted  in  different 
parts  of  the  building  so  that  a  child  can  wash  his 
hands  without  making  a  journey  or  elbowing  his 
way  into  a  crowd.  The  duty  of  washing  the  hands 
before  meals  should  be  taught  in  the  same  spirit 
that  one  teaches  a  little  child  to  say  grace.  Such 
observances  are  not  empty  ceremonials.  They  are 
vital  and  helpful  aids  to  beautiful  human  life — as 
distinguished  from  lower  brute  life. 

Having  removed  the  barrier  of  dirt,  parent  or  teacher 
should  endeavour  to  lead  the  child  to  attend  to  his 
play-mates — to  observe  what  is  painful  and  what  agree- 
able to  them.  If  children  and  grown-up  persons  are 
often  cruel,  that  is  mainly  because  they  do  not  attend 
sufficiently  to  the  persons  around  them  to  know  how 
their  actions  or  words  affect  them.     A  child  learns  a 


86  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

a  great  deal  during  his  first  years.  And  yet  his 
cruelty— that  is  to  say  his  ignorance— often  surprises 
us.  In  order  to  illustrate  this,  Perez  relates  how 
a  little  boy  of  four,  whose  playmate  had  just  died, 
was  brought  into  the  house  of  mourning.  The  poor, 
bereaved  father,  seeing  his  dead  son's  companion,  burst 
into  tears  and  lifted  the  child  on  his  knee.  The  little 
fellow  looked  up  into  his  face,  and  said  eagerly,  "Now 
that  Paul  is  dead  you  will  give  me  his  drum  and  his 
wooden  horse,  won't  you?"  This  child  was  neither 
ungenerous  nor  cold-hearted.  He  could  be  educated 
later  through  observation  so  that  he  would  at  last 
recoil  in  horror  from  the  idea  of  inflicting  such  a 
wound.  But  to  reproach  him  at  the  time  for  callousness 
merely  because  he  remembered  the  drum  and  asked 
for  it  at  a  tragic  moment,  would  have  merely  confused 
him. 

Young  children  are  often  confused  by  the  suscepti- 
bilities of  their  elders.  They  are  as  yet  unused  to 
the  light  of  this  world,  and  their  eyes  are  accom- 
modating themselves,  but  not  quickly  enough.  They 
often  appear  unkind — they  often  appear  untruthful. 
Yet  all  the  time  they  are  hurrying  on,  as  it  were,  to 
overtake  truth  and  gentleness.  Attainment  does  not  (as 
their  elders  suppose)  always  imply  a  moral  advance,  but 
rather    mental    development.     Untruthfulness    appears 


MORAL  TRAINING.  87 

to  be  common  among  children :  insincerity  is  rare. 
"Truthfulness,"  writes  Max  Muller,  "is  the  greatest 
luxury  of  all,  the  most  expensive  luxury  in  our  life, 
and  happy  the  man  who  has  been  able  to  enjoy  it 
from  his  childhood."  But  if  truth-telling  is  a  luxury 
for  grown-up  people,  it  is  a  thing  beyond  the  resources 
of  a  little  child,  who,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  has  had 
no  time  to  purchase  it. 

Sincere  the  reasonably  well-born  and  nurtured  child 
is — and  guileless.  But  the  impression  the  world  makes 
on  any  child  is  other  than  that  which  it  makes  on 
the  adult.  His  imagination  is  continually  obscuring 
the  horizon  of  the  actual,  so  that  he  himself  does  not 
always  know  where  his  waking  and  dreaming  lives 
begin  or  end.  His  whole  life  is  a  coming-forth  out 
of  chaos  into  consciousness.  It  is  necessary  therefore 
to  be  patient — and,  above  all,  to  meet  his  gravely 
uttered  but  obvious  inaccuracies  without  suspicion,  or 
imputation  of  any  intention  to  deceive.  Accuracy  can 
be  gained  only  by  prolonged  cultivation  of  the  fac- 
ulty of  attention.  And  for  this  any  lesson,  but  espe- 
cially the  science  lessons,  offer  good  opportunities.  For 
in  making  the  simplest  experiment  a  child  must  pay 
attention  as  a  debt  and  duty.  The  boy  has  to  sup- 
.  press  a  riotous  stream  of  thoughts,  to  quell  eager 
desires  for  play,  to  interrupt  many  involuntary  move- 


88  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

ments.  By  such  discipline  the  impression  grows  clear, 
memory  becomes  more  denned,  and  the  moral  sense 
becomes  more  delicate  and  more  keen. 

It  is  curious  to  watch  the  growing  scrupulousness 
of  some  happily  placed  children,  and  with  it  the 
growing  charm  of  the  youthful  personality.  It  seems 
as  though  they  emerged  and  became  visible  to  us, 
only  in  proportion  to  the  growth  of  the  power  of 
attention  and  growing  accuracy  of  expression.  "  It  is 
not" — said  a  writer  once,  of  the  family  of  a  scientist — 
"  It  is  not  merely  that  one  learns  to  trust  them.  That 
goes  without  saying — they  speak  the  truth.  But  the 
habit  of  careful  observation  and  scrupulous  report  has 
induced  in  them  a  peculiar  clearness  and  directness 
in  intercourse,  a  subtile,  very  refined  realism  in  expres- 
sion, which  makes  me  feel  when  I  am  with  them  as 
if  I  were  seeing  the  world  through  excellent  glasses, 
and  for  the  first  time  thoroughly  appreciating  the 
spectacle." 

These  words  bear  evidence  that  truth-telling  is  a 
luxury,  not  merely  to  the  person  who  speaks  it,  but 
to  those  who  listen.  It  is  a  luxury  not  easily  come 
by  1  It  is  the  reward  of  vigilance — of  attention — and 
also  of  sacrifice  I  Perhaps  the  most  scrupulous,  if  not 
the  most  sincere,  men  are  to  be  found  in  the  ranks 
of  the  great  modern  scientist.     They  constantly  deny 


MORAL  TRAINING.  89 

themselves  the  luxury  of  emphasis.  They  refuse  them- 
selves the  pleasure  (often  well  within  their  reach)  of 
poetic  utterance,  in  order  that  their  words  may  express 
no  more  and  no  less  than  the  truth.  Thus  truthful- 
ness is,  perhaps,  less  a  luxury  to  him  who  gives  than 
to  him  who  receives.  It  is  a  debt  which  we  owe  one 
to  another — but  it  is  still  a  luxury,  and  it  costs  a 
great  deal. 

"And  is  this  all?"  cries  some  reader.  "Truthfulness, 
cleanliness,  and  kindness  are  excellent  qualities.  But 
is  this  all?  What  about  direct  religious  and  ethical 
training?  You  have  spoken  of  certain  habits  or  ways 
of  life,  but  not  of  conscious  life  and  its  guiding  prin- 
ciples and  faith." 

It  is  true  that  life  itself  is  the  great  thing.  One 
is  reminded  of  this  when  one  looks  at  a  child.  Some 
are  born  rich,  and  others  are  born  poor,  or  ruined.  But 
one  is  reminded  also,  that  the  child  is  not  responsible 
for  his  own  existence,  or  even  for  his  own  mental  and 
moral  tendencies.  It  is  the  parents — guided  or  un- 
guided  by  principles  or  faith — who  have  stored  up 
and  transmitted  the  heritage  he  has  been  obliged  to 
accept. 

This  heritage  is  not  of  course  quite  final.  It  may 
be    modified — it   may    even  be  supplemented  through 


90  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

education  and  training.  But  even  then  the  education 
must  be  one  of  influences,  and  the  training  one  of 
habits. 

The  child  is  again  exonerated  you  see — at  least  for 
a  time.  "  Love  your  neighbour,"  we  say  to  the  criminal, 
to  the  undeveloped,  to  the  waif  of  the  street — but  they 
do  not  obey.  "Love  your  neighbour,"  we  say  to  the 
child.  But  such  an  exhortation  is  idle  enough.  The 
main  duty  of  parent  or  teacher  is  to  make  obedience 
to  the  higher  law  possible,  and  at  last  inevitable. 
And  if  any  lesson  or  exercise  does  not  forward  this 
directly  or  indirectly  it  has  no  value  whatsoever. 

And  yet  early  training  is  physiological,  and  con- 
cerned almost  entirely  with  the  development  of  the 
body.  The  unconscious  impressions  of  infancy  should 
be  succeeded  in  the  school  by  others — more  vivid, 
more  connected — that  is  all.  The  best  geography  les- 
sons, the  best  history  lessons,  are  those  which  appeal 
most  strongly  to  the  senses,  which  stir  the  imagination, 
waken  the  sympathy,  and  exercise,  not  merely  the 
cerebral,  but  the  sympathetic  system.  Drawing,  writ- 
ing, modelling,  and  every  kind  of  manual  training  are 
important  because  they  ensure  a  growth  in  motor 
control,  a  development  of  the  basal  sense  of  touch, 
a  means  of  evolving  in  natural  sequence  and  to  full 
perfection    the    delicate    network   of  fibres    and   cells 


MORAL  TRAINING.  91 

which  are  the  physical  basis  of  mental  and  spiritual 
life.  Not  only  are  the  higher  cerebral  centres  import- 
ant, and  the  development  and  the  finer  tissues  a  con- 
dition of  spiritual  endowment — all  the  organs,  all  the 
tissues  are  concerned  or  represented  in  every  action. 
For  the  organ  of  mind  is  an  outgrowth  from  these.  It 
unites  these  in  a  common  bond,  and  is,  as  Hack  Tuke 
tells  us,  a  microcosm  of  the  whole  body.  "  It  is  a 
fine  expression  of  Swedenborg's,"  observes  this  writer, 
"  that  the  likeness  or  image  of  the  greatest  is  represented, 
as  in  a  mirror,  in  the  least,  and  of  the  least  in  the 
greatest."  And  he  adds:  "Nor  can  anything  be  turned 
over  in  the  mind  that,  if  it  please,  may  not  be  por- 
trayed in  the  extremes  by  means  of  the  fibres :  for 
instance,  in  action  by  the  muscles  .  .  .  There  is  a  like- 
ness of  the  brain  in  every  fibre.  The  fibres  carry 
with  them  the  animus  of  the  brain." 

By  a  different  route  the  great  Scandinavian  seer 
arrived  at  exactly  the  same  conclusion  as  the  modern 
physiologist.  Both  affirm  that  the  development  of  the 
minutest  corpuscle  represents  the  same  principle  that 
works  in  the  formation  of  the  organ  of  mind;  that  the 
brain  is  in  immediate  relation  to  all  the  tissues  and 
structure  and  affected  by  all  that  affects  them.  It 
is  impossible  therefore  to  deny  that  every  lesson,  and 
every    experience,    is    physiological,    and  at  the  same 


92  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

time  ethical  (or  unethical).  There  are  no  "secular" 
subjects,  if  secular  is  understood  to  mean  something 
that  is  out  of  all  relation  to  conduct  and  morals. 
There  is  no  "mental"  training,  if  "mental"  is  under- 
stood to  mean  something  outside  the  organism.  All 
right  training  is  physiological  and  has  as  its  final  aim 
the  evolution  of  the  ethical  man  or  woman. 

And  it  is  not  exhortation,  but  heritage  and  training 
that  makes  obedience  to  the  highest  possible  and  at 
last  inevitable.  Sadly,  as  from  a  prison-house,  look 
forth  on  us  the  eyes  of  the  children  who  have  no 
power  to  obey,  of  the  undeveloped  man  and  woman 
who  cannot  resolve  and  accomplish.  Sadly,  indeed, 
we  all  look  forth  sometimes,  and  feel  that  our  highest 
aspirations  can  never  be  realized,  that  our  best  im- 
pulses are  balked,  that  the  will  is  present  more  or 
less,  but  how  to  perform  we  know  not.  "I  hope," 
said  a  little  girl  one  day,  "that  I  shall  be  good  this 
morning.  But  I  know  that  I  cannot."  We  also  know 
that  we  cannot  be  good,  but  only  believe  in  goodness. 
We  cannot  live  beautifully,  or  love  our  neighbour  as 
ourself.  We  have  not  got  the  physical  qualification 
for  such  a  life.  Fools  call  us  hypocrites.  There  are 
very  few  hypocrites  in  the  world — but  the  number  of 
undeveloped  persons  is  very  great. 

But  the  first  years  are  years  of  opportunity.   If  during 


MORAL  TRAINING.  93 

those  years  good  fundamental  impressions  are  made, 
muscle  and  nerve  is  trained,  dormant  faculties  roused, 
right  habits  formed,  and  the  whole  nervous  system 
rendered  capable  of  full  exercise,  and  fine  nutrition, 
then  the  potver  to  do  well  is  acquired.  And  it  is  the 
pozver,  after  all,  that  we  are  all  looking  for!  "A 
perfect  man,"  says  a  great  writer,  "  is  a  man  whose 
nervous  system  is  perfectly  nourished  and  exercised 
in  all  its  ramifications." 

The  world  of  life  opens  out  before  us  as  we  are 
prepared  for  it.  It  comes  to  meet  us  as  we  advance, 
with  new  power,  and  new  mystery.  We  learn  how 
Life  extends  her  empire,  not  merely  beyond  the  stars, 
but  within  the  dust.  How  the  scum  on  the  pool  is 
a-throb  with  life,  and  how,  even  within  our  own  tissues, 
communities  travail  and  triumph.  We  see  that  our 
own  life  is  small  as  a  ripple  on  the  Ocean,  yet  full 
of  mystery  and  power.  We  learn  all  this,  and  the 
child  learns  it,  but  the  impression  which  all  this  makes 
on  him  or  on  us,  the  response  and  emotion  it  awakens 
depend  mainly,  not  on  ourselves,  but  on  others. 

Robert  Burns  thrilled  in  the  stubbly  field.  The 
millionaire's  son  may  traverse  the  whole  globe  without 
one  throb  of  joy  or  wonder;  and  why?  Because  the 
ploughman  was  born  rich,  but  the  other  was  born 
poor.     It   is   true   that   the   wind  blew  in  the  roof  on 


94  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

the  night  of  the  poet's  birth,  and  that  was  not  a  very 
serious  matter,  for  the  roof  could  be  mended.  But 
who  can  make  good  to  a  child  the  loss  of  vital  capital 
by  his  own  progenitors,  or  re-build  the  vault  of  an 
impoverished  brain? 

"But  surely,"  you  say,  "  we  cannot  shift  all  respon- 
sibility on  to  the  shoulders  of  our  parents.  We  must 
show  even  a  child  that  he  has  some  individual  respon- 
sibility." 

Rather  we  must  lead  him  to  see,  in  the  fulness 
of  time,  how  stupendous  is  his  responsibility.  For  he 
must  learn  at  last  that  the  final  consequences  of  his 
actions  are  to  be  borne,  not  by  himself,  but  by  others  I 
More  than  one  great  modern  writer  has  tried  to  show 
us  how  terrible  it  is  to  sow  wild  oats  in  youth.  To 
sow  wild  oats  in  age  is  not  so  bad — for  the  aged 
heart,  like  the  reaped  field,  is  waiting  only  for  the 
winter.  But  the  youth  is  weaving  the  destiny  of  the 
innocent,  and  what  he  sows  his  children  will  reap. 
For  ages  parents  have  been  educated  through  their 
children.  They  have  been  led  on  to  make  one  sacrifice 
after  another  for  their  little  ones,  and  have  emerged 
from  barbarism  through  continuous  efforts  prompted 
by  growing  love  and  pity.  Through  long  years  they 
now  watch  over  them — and  a  large  portion  of  their 
lives  is  absorbed  in  the  duties  and  sacrifices  prescribed 


MORAL  TRAINING.  95 

by  love.  But  now  the  scientist  warns  us.  "  This  is 
not  enough.  This,  if  it  is  all,  may  be  all  in  vain." 
The  sense  of  responsibility  must  be  deepened  and 
widened  till  it  embraces  early  youth  as  well  as 
maturity.  Longer  and  longer  periods  of  life  must 
fall  under  the  guidance  and  sway  of  Love  if  the 
race  is  to  emerge  from  brutishness  and  aspire  to  ever- 
rising  ideals  of  manhood  or  womanhood. 

Thus  the  greatest  responsibilities  wait  for  the  young 
child.  And  they  must  wait,  but  not  too  long.  Being 
a  child  he  cannot  assume  them ;  yet  he  must  be 
educated  through  habit  and  example  so  that  he  will 
while  he  is  still  very  young  freely  own  and  faithfully 
estimate  them.  Nor,  of  course,  is  he  to  be  suffered 
to  believe  himself  helpless,  or  allowed  to  regard  him- 
self as  entirely  irresponsible,  even  as  a  little  child. 
Every  lesson,  if  it  is  worth  anything,  is  a  method  of 
showing  him  that  he  has  power.  Even  in  his  play  he 
learns  that  he  can  change  things — that  they  yield  to  his 
touch  and  are  conquered  by  his  patience.  As  he  grows 
older  he  becomes  conscious,  also,  that  he  can  change 
himself.  "I  was  naughty  this  morning,"  said  a  child 
one  night.  "  Then  I  was  naughty  all  day."  He  made 
an  observation  which  teachers  and  parents  are  constantly 
making — viz.,  that  one  evil  action  leads  to  another. 
Which  means  in  other  words  that  the  body  itself  and 


g6  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

its  dispositions  are  changed  by  every  action — by 
every  obscure  choice,  and  feeble  resistance  or  renun- 
ciation. Thus  the  child  learns  in  a  vague  manner 
that  he  can  widen  or  restrict  his  own  consciousness, 
and  diminish  or  increase  his  own  power  of  self-control. 
The  teacher  is  there  to  make  this  consciousness  clear, 
to  give  it  voice,  so  that  the  child  may  know  that  he 
is,  after  all,  responsible  in  some  degree  for  his  own 
weakness. 

In  Western  schools  the  sterner  virtues,  such  as 
courage,  industry,  perseverance  etc.,  are  enforced  in 
a  practical,  and  whole-hearted  way.  Pluck,  hardihood 
and  determination  distinguish  our  boys  when  they  go 
out  to  fight  their  way  in  the  world.  They  are  won- 
derful colonists.  They  travel,  and  are  not  afraid  of 
toil  or  adventure.  And  yet  we,  so  fearless  in  many 
ways,  are  very  timid  with  the  higher  axioms — as  well 
we  may  be.  They  seem  to  threaten  the  ruder  qualities 
by  which  we  have  won  so  much.  We  hardly  dare 
to  tell  the  children  that,  to  the  wisest  and  most 
thoughtful  men,  selfishness  and  greed  appear  as  the 
symptoms  of  blindness  if  not  of  madness  1  Yet  this 
timidity  of  ours  is  itself  the  result  of  weakness — and 
arrest ! 

We  have  seen  how  the  little  child,  terrified  by  the 
spectacle  of  the  world,  becomes  the  victim  of  illusion. 


MORAL  TRAINING.  97 

The  world  is  full  of  dangerous  monsters  for  him — he 
is  afraid  where  there  is  no  real  cause  for  fear,  because 
he  does  not  know  the  nature  of  things,  nor  see  them 
in  right  proportion.  Later  the  world  looks  different. 
And  indeed  as  long  as  we  progress,  the  aspect  of 
things  continues  to  change,  the  world  is  new  every 
morning.  As  long  as  the  nervous  system  continues 
to  develop,  the  appearance  of  the  world  must  continue 
to  change.  Has  it  ceased  to  change  for  us?— that 
is  only  because  we  have  ceased  to  grow.  But  we 
are  unjust  to  children  if  we  do  not  allow  them  to  know 
that,  to  the  most  highly  developed  men  of  our  race, 
the  fear  of  poverty  or  death,  sordid  aims,  the  desire 
for  mere  material  wealth,  and  mere  personal  triumphs 
appear  as  monstrous  and  illusory  as,  to  us  average 
grown-up  men  and  women,  appear  the  phantoms  and 
terrors  of  early  childhood. 


CHAPTER    VII. 

LITERATURE  AND   CHILDREN. 

At  the  first  glance  the  phrase,  "  A  Literature  for 
Children",  suggests  something  very  like  a  contradic- 
tion in  terms :  for  the  desire  for  written  or  printed 
books  belongs,  not  to  childhood,  but  to  maturity. 
The  hero-god,  prophet,  poet,  and  priest  are  powerful 
during  the  youth  of  nations.  The  Poet  is  nearly 
always  a  Sublime  Child.  But  the  Hero  as  man  of 
letters  is,  as  Carlyle  says,  "  a  product  of  these  new 
ages."  He  has  appeared  for  men  who  read  — indeed 
possibly  for  men  who  read  a  great  deal  too  much ! 
And  he  appeals,  not  to  childhood  and  youth,  but  to 
maturity  and  age. 

At  this  point  many  a  mother  will  smile.  For  chil- 
dren read  so  much.  Some  of  them  will  read  ANYTHING. 
It  is  said  that  Balzac,  when  a  very  young  child,  read 
the  Dictionary  from  beginning  to  end,  having  no  other 
book  at  hand.  Not  a  few  children  have  been  known 
to  devour  learned  treatises,  driving  their  milk-teeth 
into  the  rind  of  dogma.  And  how  many  thousands 
sit  late  in  the  firelight,  or  escape  to  dusty  garrets  to 


LITERATURE  AND  CHILDREN.       99 

devour  stories  of  adventure.  How  many  thousands 
more  turn  over  with  delight  the  pages  of  new  illus- 
trated books,  and  open  eagerly  the  new  number  of 
their  Child's  Magazine.  No  wonder  many  a  mother 
smiles  to  hear  that  the  writer  of  books  appeals  only 
to  the  mature ! 

The  book-loving  child  is,  nevertheless,  a  very  modern 
little  person.  It  would  be  absurd,  perhaps,  to  call  him 
mature;  but  it  is  not  at  all  absurd  to  assert  that  he 
is  premature.  Balzac  reading  the  Old  and  New 
Testament  at  the  age  of  five  was  a  child,  but  he 
had  advanced  far  already  along  the  path  of  life.  In 
"  Louis  Lambert" — who  was  Balzac  himself — the  great 
author  of  the  "  Human  Comedy "  wonders  about  his 
own  childhood — tries  to  retrace  his  first  footsteps. 
"Did  this  child's  imagination,"  he  asks,  " comprehend 
the  mysterious  depths  of  the  Scriptures?  Could  he 
already  follow  the  flight  of  the  spirit  across  the  worlds  ? 
Was  he  enamoured  of  the  romantic  charms  which 
abound  in  these  oriental  poems?  Did  his  soul,  in  its 
first  innocence,  love  the  sublime  religion  which  is  set 
forth  in  these  books?"  The  questions  appear  stu- 
pendous, more  especially  when  we  remember  that  the 
subject  of  them  is  a  little  child  who  has  not  reached 
his  sixth  year.  Yet  Balzac  is  obliged  to  answer  them 
all   in   the   affirmative.     Certainly  the  little  child  was 


ioo  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

something  of  a  mystic,  something  of  a  poet,  something 
of  a  priest:  otherwise  why  should  he  read?  Above 
all,  why  should  he  eagerly  devour  the  Book  of  Books 
instead  of  the  story  of  "Jack  and  the  Beanstalk,"  or 
"Dick  Whittington  and  his  Cat"? 

When  a  traveller  (be  he  ever  so  small)  arrives 
from  a  distant  city,  it  is  of  no  use  to  say  to  him: 
"You  could  not  possibly  have  made  the  journey." 
Certainly  he  has  made  the  journey.  He  is  here  to 
prove  it.  You  may  feel  amazed,  but  there  is  no  room 
for  doubt. 

"  He  has  made  it  too  rapidly,"  the  solicitous  mother 
will  say:  and  perhaps  she  is  right.  But  we  have  to 
admit  at  the  outset  that  the  wisest  mother  or  teacher 
in  the  world  cannot  determine  the  speed  at  which  a 
child's  mind  shall  grow,  or  his  thoughts  travel.  This 
is  obvious  to-day,  when  so  many  teachers  and  parents 
are  in  a  hurry.  It  was  more  obvious  in  olden  days 
when  mothers  did  not  make  any  undue  haste.  It 
was  not  an  ambitious,  but  a  simple-minded  mother 
who  found  her  child  in  the  Temple,  discussing  great 
problems  with  the  Doctors  and  asking  them  questions. 
Even  the  mother  of  the  child  who  reads  learned  treat- 
ises in  the  garret,  or  in  the  field,  is  usually  a  simple- 
minded,  lowly  woman.  She  is  amazed  and  disturbed, 
beholding     how     much     has     happened    without   her 


LITERATURE  AND  CHILDREN.  101 

knowledge,  perceiving  how  little  she  may  interfere  in 
the  mysterious  development  that  is  taking  place  at 
her  side.  Certainly  she  has  never  tried  to  discuss 
learned  questions  in  baby-language  with  her  son,  or 
offered  him  simplified  renderings  of  the  Classics.  Yet 
he  is  now  busy,  not  with  diluted  extracts,  but  with 
originals.  It  is  quite  clear  that  a  child  does  not 
learn  to  love  great  books  by  reading  childish  ones, 
nor  by  listening  to  expositions. 

The  instinct  of  the  mother  who  would  postpone 
rather  than  hasten  the  day  of  Books  is  therefore  an 
admirable  one.  A  very  slight  advance,  a  very  low 
order  of  development  is  enough  to  ensure  to  any 
individual  a  certain  love  of  reading.  The  most  uned- 
ucated person  in  the  world  reads — a  penny  dreadful! 
But  what  ensures  in  childhood  a  sympathy  with  what 
is  most  sublime  in  the  childhood  of  the  race?  Deeper 
sympathies,  finer  intuitions,  fairer  hopes,  better  culture. 
—How  to  secure  these? — that  is  the  question. 

They  are  the  birthright  of  some  favoured  children. 
And  in  many  children  happily  the  germs  of  them 
can  be  developed. 

Two  conditions  of  such  development  are  Time  and 
Space, — long  days  and  wide  horizons. 

Nature  appears  almost  anxious  to  secure  these  con- 
ditions for  the  young.     For  how  long  the  little  child's 


102  EARLY  CHILDHOOD.  , 

days  are  1  How  endless  his  years.  Life  is  compar- 
atively short  after  one  has  passed  one's  seventh 
birthday:  but  before  one  has  reached  it  every  season 
is  an  age!  During  those  first  long  seasons  in  that 
vast  early  world  the  child  wakens — and  dreams. 

That  world  may  be  a  noisy  one  —in  that  case  he 
is  distracted !  or  a  base  one,  and  then  he  is  wronged ! 
or  a  small  one  (too  small  for  dreams  or  visions)  and 
then  he  is  hindered  or  restrained.  It  is  said  that  great 
men  come  from  the  hills  and  the  wildernesses.  And 
this  is  not  wonderful,  for  in  such  places  the  child- 
mind  expands  and  opens  itself  to  the  influences  of 
solemn  and  lovely  nature  in  peace.  There,  indeed, 
the  world  becomes  for  the  little  one  Immensity,  and 
Time  is  endless.  The  child-heart  brims  with  life  which 
very  often  finds  its  expression  in  secret  and  involuntary 
worship.  Alone  on  the  Karroo  the  little  hero  of  The 
African  Farm  made  an  altar  of  twelve  stones  and  placed 
on  it  the  mutton  chop  which  was  to  have  been  his 
dinner.  "Sure  never  since  the  beginning  of  the  world 
was  there  so  ragged  and  so  small  a  priest."  O  yes ! 
There  have  been  thousands  of  priests,  just  as  small,  just 
as  ragged.  The  great  man  is  the  exception.  And  yet 
he  is  great  mainly  because  he  feels  very  deeply,  and 
expresses  very  powerfully  the  life  of  other  men — of 
the  average  person.     Many  a  small  herd  has  wondered 


LITERATURE  AND  CHILDREN.  103 

and  worshipped  in  silence.  Is  it  only  the  child  of 
genius  who  loves  and  marvels?  To  believe  that  one 
must  have  wonderfully  little  knowledge  of  the  mute 
and  shrouded  life  around  us.  "Unhappy  the  heart  that 
has  not  loved  in  youth,"  is  a  Russian  proverb.  Unhappy, 
too,  the  man  or  woman  who  has  never  been  poet  or 
priest  even  in  childhood. 

The  average  child  is  happily  both  poet  and  priest. 
Were  it  otherwise  there  would  be  little  enough  hope 
of  any  moral  or  intellectual  advance  for  the  race.  For 
poetry  and  worship  are  not  childish  things  to  be  put 
away  as  we  grow  up,  like  toys ;  or  conquered,  like  a 
lisp  or  a  stammer.  On  the  contrary,  they  represent  all 
the  original  and  potential  wealth  of  the  nature.  Just 
as  the  active  nerve-cell  is  developed  from  the  bed  of 
nucleated  and  supporting  substance  called  neuroglia, 
so  all  the  higher  faculties  of  the  mature  being  are 
developed  from  the  wealth  of  stimulating  and  sustaining 
impressions  that  aroused  the  infant  soul  to  love  and 
wonder.  But  the  first  movements  are  certainly  not  in 
the  direction  of  literature. 

Even  when  the  poet  and  priest  are  in  abeyance 
the  child  of  promise  may  show  no  love  of  letters. 
Gustave  Flaubert  was  very  slow  in  taking  to  books. 
He  could  barely  read  at  the  age  of  nine.  But  as  a 
child   he    loved   to   listen   to  stories.     He  used  to  fix 


104  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

his  great  blue  eyes  on  the  speaker,  and  remain  for 
hours  dreaming  after  the  voice  had  ceased.  Of  what 
was  he  dreaming?  Of  the  sense?  Or  of  the  sound? 
Probably  of  both :  for  human  speech  is  a  great  deal 
more  than  the  vehicle  of  information  — a  fact  of  which 
we  are  very  conscious  when  we  listen  to  a  singer, 
but  of  which  a  child  is  conscious  even  when  he  listens 
to  speech. 

Was  Gustave  Flaubert  the  only  child  who  loved  to 
listen?  Let  mothers  answer  I  How  often  have  they 
told  their  little  ones  the  same  stories?  They  repeat 
them  over  and  over,  and  the  listener  will  not  allow 
any  tampering  with  the  original.  Grown-up  people 
may  be  in  search  of  far-fetched  things.  The  child 
glances  at  the  strange,  but  he  loves  the  familiar. 
"  This  is  mother,"  he  says,  pointing  to  every  picture 
of  a  lady  in  his  illustrated  books.  He  is  not  always 
learning  new  things.  His  happiest  moments,  perhaps, 
are  those  when  he  is  taking  fuller  possession  of  the 
old.  It  is  one  of  the  privileges  of  childhood — this  of 
taking  new  possession.  For  him  everything  is  new — 
even  the  sense  of  proprietorship,  and  every  repetition 
is  a  kind  of  re-assurance.  "  Yes !  This  is  mine,"  he 
feels.     He  has  tightened  his  hold  on  life. 

"A  great  pleasure  the  Greeks  had  beyond  us," 
writes   Addison,   "  was  that  they  lived  upon  the  spot 


LITERATURE  AND  CHILDREN.  105 

and  within  the  verge  of  the  poem  they  read.  They 
could  find  out  their  own  country  in  Homer,  and  had, 
every  day,  perhaps,  in  their  sight  the  mountain  or  field 
where  such  an  adventure  happened,  or  such  a  battle 
was  fought.  And  so  even  in  books  they  found  only 
a  renewal  of  their  own  life,  a  means  of  rendering 
clearer  and  dearer  the  impressions  of  childhood  and 
youth."  This  young  nation  read,  not  to  get  new 
information  (after  all,  only  a  comparatively  small  num- 
ber read  with  that  object  even  to-day),  but  to  get 
a  new  baptism  of  feeling. 

"Ah!  But  what  a  long  time  this  education  in  feel- 
ing lasts  1 "  cries  the  modern  parent.  And  their 
thoughts  fly  to  the  long  syllabus!  Oh,  in  these  days 
one  must  learn  so  much.  Competition  grows  keener 
in  every  field  of  labour — examinations  more  difficult — 
the  standard  of  requirements  mounts  till  one  grows 
giddy  in  looking  at  it. 

Many  parents  of  all  classes  are  disturbed,  but  the 
working-class  parent  is  indignant.  "What!"  he  cries. 
"  My  child  cannot  get  on  with  his  learning  when  he  is 
little!  But  what  does  this  mean?  I  send  him  to 
school  at  the  age  of  three  or  four  in  order  that  he  may 
leave  early.  At  twelve  he  must  earn  his  living.  Time  I — 
it  is  very  well  to  speak  of  time.     But  Time  is  Money  I" 

To    such   impatient  parents  it  will  be  a  comfort  to 


106  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

learn  that  when  sensation  is  ripe,  thought  is  rapid. 
Gustave  Flaubert,  standing  for  hours  with  his  ringer 
in  his  mouth,  must  have  appeared  to  the  superficial 
observer  a  very  dull  boy — perhaps  an  imbecile.  Yet 
the  dreaming  boy  began  at  last  to  develop  very 
rapidly.  There  appears  to  be  little  transition  in  the 
different  life-stages  of  many.  This  is  because  the  ear- 
lier life  is  mute  and  veiled.  It  is  generally  believed 
that  the  country-bred  child  is  duller  than  his  town- 
bred  cousin.  And  yet  there  could  not  be  a  greater 
fallacy  1  The  country  child  is  not  behind  the  town 
child  in  intelligence.  Ruskin  points  out  that  the  peas- 
ant boy  draws  better  than  the  cockney.  To  be  sure 
he  is  more  awkward  and  timid  at  first,  but  after  a 
few  lessons  it  becomes  clear  that  he  observes  much 
more  accurately  than  the  town  child.  He  sees  more, 
though  he  is  not  so  "sharp."  Slowness  does  not 
always  betoken  dearth.  Many  a  child,  who  has  pass- 
ed as  "  dull,"  and  who  was  never  heard  to  say  a 
clever  thing,  begins  about  the  age  of  seven  to  show 
signs  of  vigorous  mental  growth.  The  teacher  is  sur- 
prised !  Or  perhaps  the  teacher  is  not  surprised.  For 
indeed  there  are  thousands  of  teachers  and  parents 
who  expect  children  of  a  certain  age  to  make  very 
rapid  progress,  and  are  surprised  and  disturbed  if  the 
sudden  advance  does  not  take  place. 


LITERATURE  AND  CHILDREN.  107 

Scotland  is  one  of  the  foremost  countries  in  matters 
that  concern  education.  Her  plough-boys  have  studied 
as  well  as  dreamed  at  the  plough-tail.  Her  fisher- 
lads  have  been  taught  by  University.men,  and  not  a 
few  of  them  have  worked  their  way  to  the  highest 
seats  of  learning.  Yet  there  is,  perhaps,  no  country 
where  the  works  of  Frobel  and  Pestalozzi  were 
less  studied.  Indeed,  until  quite  recently,  when  groups 
of  child-students  began  to  investigate  the  deeper  mean- 
ings of  the  teachings  of  the  great  German,  the  very 
word  "Kindergarten"  was  almost  unknown.  What  is 
the  meaning  of  this?  Frobel  was  a  great  genius,  and 
could  not  fail  to  be  appreciated  by  any  enlightened 
community.  It  is  true.  But  though  Frobel  began  to 
write  "The  Education  of  Man",  he  did  not  finish 
his  work.  He  did  not  even  advance  very  far.  The 
word  "Kindergarten"  is  still  associated  with  the  thought 
of  very  young  children.  And  in  Scotland  only  a 
comparatively  small  number  of  very  young  children  go 
to  school  at  all.  The  other  day  an  English  visitor  en- 
tering the  large  infant  class-room  of  a  Scottish  school, 
looked  round  him  wonderingly.  "Where,"  he  asked 
"are  the  infants?"  He  had  seen  babies  of  two 
and  three  in  English  infant  class-rooms,  and  expected 
to  find  children  of  the  same  age  in  the  schools  of  the 
Sister  Country.     But  no!   The  Scottish  'infants'  were 


108  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

six,  seven,  and  even  eight  years  old.  The  babies  were 
at  home  with  their  mothers,  who  (whatever  may  be 
said  of  home-discipline  for  older  children  in  Scotland) 
give  babies  a  great  deal  of  liberty. 

On  the  wild  moorland  you  can  sometimes  meet  the 
small,  bare-footed,  hardy  little  ones  who  do  not  learn 
their  letters.  It  is  difficult  to  pity  them.  They  are 
so  well  off.  True  they  wear  scanty,  and  perhaps 
ragged,  clothing.  Their  food  is  oat-bannocks,  porridge, 
and  perhaps  skimmed  milk.  They  make  their  own  toys. 
But  what  a  play-ground  is  this  moor,  with  perhaps 
a  Druid's  temple  in  the  wood,  and  a  ruined  shed  or 
old  cart  buried  somewhere  in  the  gorse.  The  wind 
sweeps  down  from  the  hills.  The  cloud  shadows  pass 
over  their  dark  sides.  And  the  children  sleep  and 
waken,  and  play  in  peace  and  freedom 

This  glorious  life  ends  somewhat  abruptly.  Or, 
rather,  it  is  interrupted  in  a  rather  stern  fashion.  At 
the  age  of  seven  or  thereabout,  the  children  go  to 
school  and  learn  to  read  and  write.  They  have  no 
coloured  balls,  no  block-letters  -  nothing  of  the  kind. 
There  are  no  simple  books  with  words  of  one  and 
two  syllables  provided  for  them.  Certainly  not.  They 
learn  to  read,  and  the  mother  or  teacher  at  once 
puts  into  their  hands  the  Book  of  Books.  The  first 
Book  they   read  is   the    Book   on   which  the  greatest 


LITERATURE  AND  CHILDREN.  109 

minds  have  been  nourished  for  ages.  They  may  also 
read  the  "Pilgrim's  Progress".  And  they  have  to  learn 
the  Catechism,  of  which  the  very  first  question  is 
"  What  is  the  chief  end  of  Man  ? "  The  mother  sees  that 
they  learn  it  well,  and  assures  them  that  if  they  do 
not  understand  it  all  now,  it  will  come  to  them  as 
they  grow  up.  Meantime  they  have  to  learn,  not  merely 
things  which  they  understand,  but  also  things  which 
they  will  puzzle  over  for  years.  An  inestimable  ad- 
vantage. For  thus,  the  mind  is  not  only  nourished, 
but  stimulated.  The  teacher  is  often  at  her  wits'  end 
to  answer  the  children's  questions,  but  she  is  not  sur- 
prised to  hear  the  children  ask  them.  Nor  does  the 
mother  wonder  that  her  little  boy,  who  could  not  read 
at  all  last  year,  is  now  reading  the  immortal  poems 
of  the  East,  or  the  finest  allegory  of  the  Ages.  After 
all  she  is  at  home  with  miracles.  She  beholds  every 
day  swift  transformations.  The  spring  buds  look  green 
and  hard  for  a  time,  but  one  leaves  them  to  the  sun- 
shine and  the  air.  Then  one  gets  up  one  morning 
and  finds  that  they  have  opened  in  the  night.  The 
flower  has  opened,  and  looks  at  the  sun.  The  human 
mind  also  appears  to  open  very  swiftly  at  last — and 
looks  at  the  sun. 

And  here,  even  as  I  write,  comes  testimony  from  a 
brilliant  man  of  letters.     Before  he  was  asked  how  and 


no  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

when  he  began  to  read  he  volunteered  the  following 
information ! 

"I  began  with  Napier's  "Peninsular  War":  then 
came  the  glamour  of  Anderson  and  Grimm :  then  I 
yielded  to  the  spell  of  Bunyan  and  learned  the  "  Pil- 
grim's Progress  "  almost  by  heart.  Next  came  "  Pick- 
wick", Irving's  "Tales  of  a  Traveller",  the  "Old 
Curiosity  Shop  ",  and  the  "  Scottish  Cavaliers  ".  All 
these  and  many  more  I  read  before  I  was  nine, 
although  I  had  not  learned  to  read  tintil  I  zvas  turned 
eight. 

This  child  was  not  town-bred,  and  though  he  was 
sent  to  school  he  played  truant  very  often.  He  liked 
"  to  climb  the  hillsides,  to  dream  over  the  hill-streams, 
to  wonder  at  the  stately  and  sombre  firs,  and  to  listen 
to  the  wild  bee's  hum."  If  greater  books  had  been 
written  than  any  that  have  ever  been  written  such  a 
child  would  read  them.  The  modern  child  of  eight 
or  nine  is,  in  many  respects,  a  very  advanced  being. 
If  he  knows  little  of  the  grown-up  person's  trials  and 
temptations,  he  knows  something  of  his  highest  aspira- 
tions. If  he  is  reserved  with  the  average  man,  he 
is  at  home  with  the  Seer  and  the  Poet:  therefore,  as 
the  writer  already  quoted  declares,  "  It  is  a  mistake 
to  suppose  that  literary  spoon-meat  is  suitable  for 
young  digestions.     Many  a  milk-tooth  has  the  cunning 


LITERATURE  AND  CHILDREN.  in 

to  draw  the  juices  from  the  strong  man's  banquet  of 
the  standard  authors.  Any  pure  literature  is  literature 
for  the  young.  Any  good  book  is  a  child's  book  if 
the  child  can  love  and  learn  from  it."  And  he 
proceeds — as  if  in  haste  to  secure  variety — "  Dickens, 
Thackeray,  Scott,  romances  of  pirates,  Red  Indians, 
and  battles,  Macaulay  of  the  Essays  and  the  Lays 
of  Rome,  White  of  Selborne,  Hershell  the  Astronomer, 
Carlyle,  Sterne,  Montaigne,  Lear's  Nonsense  Songs 
and  Stories,  Stevenson's  "Prince  Otto"  and  "Treasure 
Island,"  "Percy's  Reliques,"  "Lorna  Doone,"  "Huckle- 
berry Finn,"  "  Tom  Sawyer,"  "  Robinson  Crusoe,"  and 
poetry  for  those  whose  palates  can  appreciate  the 
delicate  wild  wine  and  golden  apples  of  the  Muses." 
"Has  second-rate  literature  then  no  uses?"  Some 
reader  asks  incredulously.  Yes,  certainly  it  has  uses — 
second-hand  uses.  A  great  deal  of  talent  goes  to- 
day to  the  writing  of  ephemeral  articles  and  essays — 
and  many  of  these  have  a  wholesome  and  elevating 
effect.  A  great  many  good  things  die  daily.  And 
it  would  be  sad  to  witness  the  daily  flo wing-away  of 
the  effervescing  wit  and  subtle  graces  that  adorn  a 
hundred  leaderettes  if  one  did  not  know  that  this 
talent  is  not  lost  after  all — since  it  raises  (more  or 
less)  the  standard  taste  in  literature.  But  newspapers, 
magazines,  the  best  kind  of  second-rate  literature  are 


ii2  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

for  grown-up  people.  Grown-up  people,  if  they  have 
read  the  best,  may  be  able  to  use  it,  and  to  know 
its  right  value.  If  they  have  read  the  best.  For  the 
best  is  the  touchstone. 

But  for  the  child  the  testing  and  measuring  time  is 
not  yet.     He  has  to  find  his  touchstone. 

And  this  is  why  the  finest  literature  should  be  the 
only  Literature  for  Children. 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

THE   FEEBLE-MINDED   CHILD. 

One  evening  a  School  Board  candidate  was  address- 
ing a  meeting  of  rate-payers,  when,  suddenly,  a  young, 
good-looking  woman  arose  and,  in  a  shrill  voice,  inter- 
rupted him. 

"  I  don't  think  much  of  you,"  she  cried,  shaking 
her  fist  angrily, — "  nor  of  the  people  you  work  with. 
I  send  my  child  to  school, — and  what  do  the  other 
scholars  say  ?  '  Boo  1 '  they  say,  '  he's  in  the  idiot's 
class  1 '  There's  language  for  you.  You  allow  that, 
and  yet  you  think  yourselves  clever  people." 

And  the  young  woman  stamped  her  foot,  settled 
her  hat,  and,  turning  her  back  on  candidate  and  aud- 
ience, marched  out  of  the  room. 

After  all,  she  had  a  real  grievance.     Her  child  had 

been    called   an   idiot.     Now,    although    several   large 

special  classes  had  been  opened  in  the  city,  and  the 

need  for  starting  others  had  become  apparent,  not  a 

single  idiot  had  been  enrolled,  nor  was  there  a  single 

candidate  who  could  be  classed  among  the  hapless  beings 

8 


ii4  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

who  have  no  relations  with  the  human  family.  l  To 
relegate  any  creature  to  a  lower  category  than  that 
to  which  he  belongs  is  certainly  an  injustice  of  the 
grossest  kind. 

Moreover,  one  can  hardly  say  even  of  the  most 
hapless  creature,  "He  is  an  absolute  idiot."  The  great 
majority  of  even  congenital  "idiots"  is  capable  of  edu- 
cation. The  demented  child  — or  child  who  has  lost  fac- 
ulties which  he  once  possessed — bears  in  his  face  the 
traces  of  his  origin— a  reminder  that  he  belongs,  in 
spite  of  his  misfortunes,  to  the  human  family.  And 
among  all  those  hapless  beings  no  two  are  exactly  alike. 
Each  is,  after  all,  an  individual  with  specific  traits  and 
peculiarities  all  his  own.  And  if  this  is  true  even 
of  the  most  unfortunate  and  ill-endowed,  much  more 
strikingly  is  it  true  of  those  who  cannot  be  classed 
as  idiot,  imbecile,  or  demented — but  who  come  under 
the  vast  vague  category  of  the  "  feeble-minded." 
Enter  a  room  where  a  number  of  "special"  children 
are  having  a  lesson  and  you  will  see  that  in  order 
to  learn  anything  you  must  study  them  individually. 
Here,  for  example,  is  a  bright-looking  girl  of  ten  with 
regular  features.  Why  is  she  here  ?  There  appears  to  be 
no  reason  why  she  should  enter  the  "  special "  class.   But 

1  The  word  'idiot'  comes  from  the  Greek  tStot;  which  means  alone — 
solitary — -incapable  of  communication  with  others. 


THE  FEEBLE-MINDED  CHILD.  115 

after  a  little  time  you  begin  to  note  the  quick,  furtive 
glance,  the  restless  movements,  and  you  learn  from  the 
teacher  that  this  child  is  what  is  known  as  a  "moral 
imbecile."  Here  is  a  strongly-built,  reliable-looking 
boy  with  a  bullet  head.  He  answers  your  questions 
intelligently,  is  quiet,  diligent,  and  obedient.  Formerly 
he  attended  the  ordinary  classes,  but  could  not 
keep  up  with  the  others.  Now  he  is  making  steady 
progress,  and  will  probable  grow  up  to  be  a  useful 
and  contented  man.  Plainly  this  boy  is  far  removed 
from  imbecility.  He  belongs  to  the  class  which  Seguin 
called  "  les  arrieres."  On  the  next  form,  however, 
sits  a  very  different  subject — a  boy  of  twelve.  His 
face  is  asymmetrical,  which  is  probably  due  to  certain 
anomalies  of  the  sutures  at  the  base  of  the  skull. 
The  forehead  is  deeply  lined,  and  the  furrows  work 
restlessly.  The  mouth  is  open,  displaying  decayed  and 
crowded  teeth,  and  the  palate  and  roof  of  the  mouth 
are  narrow.  The  ears  are  large  and  ill-shapen,  with 
small  adhering  lobes.  And  the  fingers  of  the  cold 
blue  hands  are  misshapen,  with  coarse,  broken  nails. 
Here,  in  short,  is  every  sign  of  degeneracy.  This 
boy  speaks  very  indistinctly  and  is  quite  unable  to 
articulate  certain  sounds  on  account  of  the  malforma- 
tion of  the  palate. 

By  his  side  sits  a  younger  boy,     His  head  is  very 


n6  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

small  and  pointed  (acrocephalic) ;  the  face,  too,  is  small, 
more  especially  the  receding  chin.  This  boy  speaks 
perfectly  well,  and  the  teacher  calls  on  him  to  recite 
a  poem.  The  boy  gets  through  this  performance 
very  creditably.  But  if  you  question  him  you  will 
find  that  he  understands  very  little  of  what  he  has 
said.  Near  him  is  a  big  girl  of  fourteen,  who  presents 
a  woful  appearance.  Her  head  is  well  shaped,  and 
her  face  is  almost  comely,  but  her  large  eyes  have  a 
vague  and  mournful  look  and  are  brimming  with  tears. 
She  suffers  little  probably,  and  yet  this  face  confronts 
you  always  like  the  symbol  of  an  endless  sorrow. 
She  is  the  daughter  of  intelligent  people,  but  her 
father  was  a  drunkard.  Now  glance  at  this  little  boy 
of  eight.  His  limbs  are  crooked,  his  legs  are  so  bowed, 
indeed,  that  he  can  hardly  walk.  The  frail  body 
seems  to  sink  between  the  shoulders,  and  the  face  is 
old  and  wrinkled.  Yet  the  eyes  are  not  wanting 
in  intelligence.  He  is  the  victim  of  wrong  feeding. 
He  had  to  suck  bread  and  dripping  instead  of  milk 
when  he  was  five  months  old,  and  now  behold  him — 
one  of  the  vast  army  of  maimed  and  incapables. 
The  little  girl  by  his  side  appears  to  be  about  ten 
years  old,  but  she  has  the  face  of  a  woman.  She 
is  twenty-three  years  old.  Within  the  past  year  she 
has    grown    a   little    as    the   result  of  thyroid  feeding. 


THE  FEEBLE-MINDED  CHILD.  117 

Here  you  see  is  a  class  of  which  no  two  members 
are  in  the  same  condition.  Each  child  has  to  be  dealt 
with  as  an  individual.  Of  course  every  child  is  in  reality 
an  individual, — should  be  dealt  with  as  such.  The 
average  child  is  not  educated  by  the  teacher  who 
manages  a  class  of  60  or  70.  But  the  average  child 
can  help  himself.  He  can,  in  a  great  measure,  dispense 
with  his  teacher;  if  a  child  has  any  special  gift  it 
will  probably  develop  in  spite  of  adverse  circumstances. 
But  the  children  of  the  special  class  are  dependent. 
They  are  not  destitute  of  intelligence,  but  the  possibil- 
ity of  development  depends,  not  on  themselves,  but 
on  others. 

We  have  seen  that  there  is  no  class  •  of  human 
beings  who  may  be  called  "idiots"  as  we  call  lame 
people  "cripples".  Still  less  is  the  "feeble-minded"  child 
a  creature  to  be  absolutely  separated  from  all  other 
children.  There  is  no  sharp  dividing  line  marking 
"feeble-minded  "  people  on  one  side,  and  bright  persons 
on  the  other,  for  the  average  and  the  gifted  person  some- 
times show  signs  of  degeneracy.  And  yet  it  is  striking 
and  very  touching  to  pass  from  the  ordinary  school, 
where  the  mental  processes  are  rapid,  and  the  current 
of  life  runs  swift  and  strong,  into  the  class-room  for 
"special"  children,  where  so  many  barriers  seem  to 
check  progress,  and  where  every  little  traveller  on  the 


n8  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

highway  of  learning  seems  to  make  headway  pain- 
fully, like  a  bird  flying  with  a  broken  wing. 

The  first  question  that  suggests  itself  as  we  stand 
before  them  is,  "  What  are  the  causes?"  In  some  cases 
the  cause  is  an  accidental  one.  A  fall,  a  blow  on  the 
head,  a  severe  illness,  bad  air,  bad  or  unsuitable  food  (as 
in  the  case  of  the  ricketty  child  described  above).  Any 
one  of  these  may  transform  a  promising  child  of  good 
type  into  a  hopelessly  trammelled  and  ruined  little 
creature  whom  it  is  almost  impossible  to  educate. 
For  brain  disease  in  childhood  often  leaves  its 
victim  in  a  more  helpless  condition  than  that  of  the 
degenerate.  The  latter  is  like  a  rude  web  which  may 
be  worked  into  a  useful  material.  But  the  former  is 
like  a  finer  material  spoiled. 

Under  the  head  of  accidental  or  acquired  defects 
may  range  the  arrests  of  development  induced  by 
frights,  falls,  blows  etc.  sustained  by  the  mother  before 
the  birth  of  children.  Such  accidents  may  result  in 
diseases  and  defects  which  proclaim  themselves  only 
when  the  child  has  arrived  at  the  age  of  two,  or 
even  later. 

But  all  are  not  the  victims  of  accident.  Some, 
to  use  the  phrase  of  a  certain  doctor,  "  were  unfor- 
tunate in  the  choice  of  their  parents."  Every  child 
must    accept    his    physical    and    intellectual    heritage. 


THE  FEEBLE-MINDED  CHILD.  119 

Some  are  born  rich,  some  poor,  and  some  ruined. 
The  degenerate  child  is  born  poor ;  yet  he  is  not 
always  descended  from  a  poor  stock.  It  is  easy  for 
a  rich  man  to  lose  all  his  money;  and  it  is  almost 
easier  for  a  richly  endowed,  highly  developed  being 
to  lose  the  highest,  and  therefore  most  lately  acquired, 
gifts.  Descent  and  decline  are  always  easy.  A  mor- 
bid affection  which  seems  slight  in  one  parent  may 
re-appear  (thanks  to  the  many  obscure  causes  through 
which  transmission  is  reinforced)  with  much  graver 
symptoms  in  the  son,  while  the  third  generation  may 
include  more  than  one  profound  "idiot."  Moreover, 
as  we  have  seen  in  the  case  of  the  weeping  girl, 
acquired  evil  habits,  or  perhaps  a  single  lapse  on  the 
part  of  a  parent,  may  have  as  its  consequence  the 
complete  and  hopeless  ruin  of  the  offspring.  Thus 
the  feeble-minded  child  may  be  the  son  or  daughter 
of  intelligent  persons  from  whom,  none  the  less,  he 
has  inherited  a  disorganized  brain. 

The  whole  question  of  heredity  is  still  wrapped  in 
mystery.  True,  a  great  many  curious  facts  have  been 
discovered,  but  the  explanation  of  these  is  still  far  to 
seek.  It  is  pretty  well  established  that  in  the  mat- 
ter of  moral  and  intellectual  endowment  daughters 
inherit  mainly  from  the  father,  and  sons  from  the 
mother.     Thus   it   is   rare   to    find  the  son  of  a  great 


120  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

man  equal  or  excel  his  father;  but  the  daughters,  and 
the  sons  of  daughters  usually  inherit  the  genius  or 
ability  of  an  eminent  man.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
illustrious  man  inherits  obviously  from  his  mother.  So 
the  complaint  of  those  who  declare  that  woman  has 
lost  her  intellectual  powers  because  many  generations 
of  women  have  been  excluded  from  mental  pursuits,  has 
no  support  at  all  from  the  physiologist,  since  women 
from  time  immemorial  have  been  coming  into  their 
fathers'  rather  than  into  their  mothers'  mental  heri- 
tage. It  is  true,  none  the  less,  that  the  influence  of 
women  on  their  offspring,  both  male  and  female,  is, 
in  some  respects,  greater  than  that  of  men.  Disease, 
weakness,  nervous  disorders,  and  morbid  tendencies 
are  transmitted  more  directly  through  the  mother. 
And  no  one  can  fail  to  note  that  while  the  father  of 
a  feeble-minded  child  seldom  presents  any  symptoms 
of  mental  weakness,  the  mother  is  often  found  to  be 
below  the  average  in  intelligence. 

Feeble-minded  women  often  marry  young,  and  have 
large  families.  As  young  girls  they  are  often  attractive, 
naive,  talkative,  and  have,  to  quote  the  words  of  an 
observant  teacher,  "  all  their  mental  gifts  in  the  shop- 
window."  Sometimes  a  feeble-minded  child  inherits 
this  garrulousness,  and  then  the  mother  is  quite  con- 
vinced  that   he  or   she   is   a    talented    creature.     For 


THE  FEEBLE-MINDED  CHILD.  121 

example:  Here  is  a  girl  called  "Emily  Ann" — 
unquestionably  feeble-minded,  but  with  an  extraordinary 
facility  of  speech.  She  no  sooner  enters  a  room  than 
she  begins  to  pour  forth  a  flood  of  words  to  the 
astonishment  of  all.  Her  mother,  who  is  very  proud  of 
her,  listens  with  great  joy  and  pride.  It  never  occurs 
to  her  to  question  the  superiority  of  her  girl's  abilities. 
Many  mothers  resemble  her  in  this.  They  will  admit 
that  a  child  is  delicate.  They  will  give  long  accounts 
of  his  illnesses  and  peculiarities,  but  they  always  end 
by  saying  that  "he  is  clever  at  home,"  or  that  "he 
would  learn  fast  enough  if  the  teacher  would  let  him." 

Sometimes  the  feeble-minded  child  does  learn  quickly. 
He  begins  to  write  a  beautiful  hand  and  to  read  as  well 
as  speak  fluently ;  so  that  the  superintendent  or  inspec- 
tor feels  inclined  to  advise  that  he  be  sent  into  the 
ordinary  school.  A  certain  number  have  indeed  left 
the  special  class  and  gone  back  to  learn  with  average 
children. 

A  small  number  of  these  successful  ones  are  not 
feeble-minded  at  all — but  merely  slow.  As  for  the 
others  who  leave  the  special  class  merely  because  they 
have  learned  to  read  or  write,  it  is  certain  that  their 
removal  was  ill-advised. 

The  power  to  read  or  write  does  not  prove  that  a 
child  possesses  average  ability. 


122  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

Well,  here  in  a  small  class  you  have  a  great  variety 
of  powers,  weaknesses,  defects,  difficulties,  and  needs. 
Here  is  the  child  of  intelligent  though,  alasl  guilty 
parents,  and  the  child  of  the  simple-minded.  Here  is 
the  degenerate  with  stigma  which  cannot  be  mistaken, 
and  the  smiling,  bright-eyed  child  whose  fair  exterior 
conceals  tragedy  and  ruin.  Here  is  the  baby  of  four 
or  five,  and  here  the  woman  of  twenty-three  who  will 
always  be  a  child.  What  kind  of  treatment  and 
education  are  these  to  share? 

In  the  first  place  the  special-class  centre  should  be 
established  at  a  school  where  the  ventilation  is  good, 
the  outside  air  pure,  and  where  there  is  a  swimming 
bath,  with  slipper-baths,  douche,  and  dressing-closets. 
The  doctor  should  be  consulted  as  to  the  kind  of 
bath — douche,  salt  water,  sulphur,  or  ordinary  fresh 
water — desirable  for  each  pupil.  Moreover,  the  author- 
ities should  recognize  that  the  bathroom  is  in  reality 
a  class-room  —  and  a  class-room  where  the  teacher  has 
special  facilities  for  carrying  on  her  work. 

"What  virtue  in  mere  washing!"  cried  Carlyle. 

Yes,  what  virtue  in  mere  washing !  What  virtue  in 
friction  1  And  last,  but  not  least,  what  virtue  in  mere 
dressing  and  undressing !  In  Dr.  Francis  Warner's 
excellent  book,  "  The  Children :  how  to  study  them", 
we  get  a  series  of  hand  and  finger  movements  which 


THE  FEEBLE-MINDED  CHILD.  123 

may  be  used  in  every  centre  with  beneficial  effects. 
Flexion  and  prehensile  movements,  reversed  movement, 
and  ordinary  drill  may  be  included  with  advantage  in 
any  system  of  physical  training  for  the  feeble-minded. 
But  it  is  well  to  remember  that  many  of  the  common 
and  necessary  acts  of  life  imply  various  and  adapted 
movements.  To  put  on  one's  stockings,  to  lace  one's 
boots  are  actions  which  the  ordinary  person  performs 
every  morning  almost  unconsciously.  But  that  these  are 
in  reality  very  complicated  exercises  is  proved  by  the 
fact  that  the  so-called  "idiot"  can  perform  them  only 
after  a  training  extending  over  many  years !  For  the 
same  reason  that  we  give  a  feeble-minded  child 
exercises  with  poles  or  balls  in  the  gymnasium,  we 
must  teach  him  to  use  his  knife  and  fork,  grasp  his 
tumbler,  lace  his  boots,  and  fasten  his  tie.  The  for- 
mer is  artificial  drill  which  may  be  very  desirable. 
The  latter  exercises  are  natural  gymnastics.  They 
are  undertaken  for  the  accomplishment  of  practical 
ends — but  they  do  not  therefore  lose  all  educational 
value  I 

Some  feeble-minded  pupils  perform  these  complicated 
movements  perfectly.  They  are  able  even  to  catch  and 
throw  a  ball  deftly,  and  are  quick  perhaps  to  learn 
the  finer  movements  involved  in  writing  etc.  Such 
children    belong   to  that  section  of  the  human  family 


i24  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

which  some  people  have  been  pleased  to  call  the 
motors,  or  persons  who  learn  through,  and  have  a 
peculiar  facility  in,  movement.  An  American  writer 
describes  an  Indian  whom  he  taught  to  read,  and  who, 
even  after  he  had  learned,  was  obliged  to  make  the 
movements  necessary  in  writing  in  order  to  distinguish 
the  letters.  This  Indian  was  a  motor.  There  are  other 
persons  for  whom  the  sense  of  hearing  seems  to  be 
the  great  medium  of  mental  life — whose  mental  life  is 
built  up  mainly  from  aural  impressions  and  representa- 
tions. The  four  Vedas  contain  100,000  verses  1  Certain 
Indian  students  learn  them  all,  but  not  from  MSS. — 
no  1 — but  from  the  mouth  of  a  properly  qualified  teacher : 
they  are  auditives  of  a  high  order.  Then  there  are 
visuals,  or  persons  who  learn  mainly  through  what 
they  SEE.  It  is  probable  that  these  are  more  nu- 
merous to-day,  when  so  much  is  learned  by  reading 
and  looking  at  printed  symbols,  than  they  were  in 
olden  days  when  instruction  was  for  the  most  part 
oral.  However  that  may  be,  in  every  class — in  the 
"special"  class  as  well  as  in  others  — you  will  probably 
find  children  belonging  to  these  various  orders.  Indeed 
in  the  "special"  class  these  orders  are  very  distinct. 
Thus  it  is  common  to  find  a  feeble-minded  child  who 
can  sing  and  has  a  good  memory  for  sounds,  and 
another   who   can  copy  well,   and  a  third  who  makes 


THE  FEEBLE-MINDED  CHILD.  125 

rapid,  and  precise  movements — and  this  peculiar  power 
is  the  more  conspicuous  because  it  seems  to  be  related 
to  nothing  else,  to  stand  alone  like  a  column  among 
ruins.  It  is  around  this  column,  however,  that  the  work 
of  construction  must  begin. 

For  example:  In  a  school  for  "idiot"  children  you 
will  sometimes  come  across  a  child  who  seems  to  live 
in  a  whirlwind.  He  tears  his  clothes,  knocks  things 
from  his  desk,  gets  down  with  obvious  pleasure  to  pick 
them  up  again,  and  returns  to  his  seat  only  to  spring 
up  again  on  the  smallest  pretext,  or  on  no  pretext 
whatever.  Of  course  all  children  love  movement,  and 
ought  to  have  much  freedom.  But  this  big  boy,  who 
is  far  more  restless  and  aimlessly  restless  than  a  child 
of  two,  is  evidently  a  "motor"  of  lowly  type.  He 
is  spending  his  energy  quite  uselessly.  But  this  en- 
ergy is  precious  and  can  be  turned  to  account.  Not 
only  can  it  be  directed  to  practical  ends,  but  it  may 
be  used  as  a  means  of  new  development.  l 

First  of  all  we  have  to  allow  the  child  to  make 
large  directed  movements.     He  may  be  set  to  sweep, 

1  This  does  not  mean  that  the  child  is  to  practise  exercises  which 
are  easy  to  him.  For  example :  If  a  child  can  throw  a  ball  deftly,  a 
teacher  must  not  keep  him  at  such  work.  She  must  associate  ball- 
throwing  with  some  other  exercise  in  which  the  activity  of  weaker 
centres  of  the  brain  are  concerned.  Simple  ball-throwing  is,  on  the 
other  hand,  a  good  exercise  for  those  whose  motor  power  is  small 
and  little  differentiated. 


126  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

carry,  lift  weights  etc.  In  the  class-room  as  well 
as  in  the  play-ground  or  home  his  energy  should  be 
allowed  an  outlet.  Moreover,  his  lessons  ought  to  con- 
sist largely  of  adapted  movement.  Reading,  Writing, 
Arithmetic  are  motor  exercises  quite  as  much  as 
the  training  in  the  Gymnasium,  or  the  manual  labour 
in  the  home.  Seguin,  the  pioneer-teacher  of  the  feeble- 
minded furnished  his  school  so  that  almost  every  ar- 
ticle could  serve  as  a  writing  surface.  He  did  this  so 
as  to  facilitate  training  through  movements — in  order 
to  press  into  service,  as  it  were,  in  every  lesson  the 
developing  muscular  sense,  and  insure  the  co-operation 
of  the  muscular  memory.  Reading  and  Writing  were 
taught  as  twin  subjects.  The  pupil  had  to  write  in 
order  to  learn  to  read.  We  have  an  example  of  the 
advantages  of  this  method  in  the  case  of  the  poor 
Indian  who  depended,  for  his  mastery  of  the  alphabet, 
almost  entirely  on  the  Muscular  Sense  and  Memory. 
Let  us  now  take  the  subject  of  Arithmetic — of  simple 
calculation  and  measurement. 

Suppose  the  teacher  wishes  to  teach  his  feeble- 
minded children  the  tables  of  Weights  and  Measures. 
He  takes  a  book,  or  card,  and  makes  them  look  at 
the  tables  or  recite  them.  The  auditives  will  soon 
catch  the  sounds  and  repeat  them  parrot-like ;  the 
visuals  can  copy  what  they  have  seen ;  and  the  motors, 


THE  FEEBLE-MINDED  CHILD.  127 

caring  little  for  the  movements  made  in  mere  recitation, 
will  be  very  troublesome  throughout  the  lesson.  But 
he  now  puts  all  the  cards  and  books  away.  He  sets 
forth  pint  and  quart  jugs  and  lets  the  children  fill 
and  empty  them.  He  takes  out  weights  and  a  bal- 
ance, and  lets  them  feel  what  a  lb.  is  by  lifting  it. 
When  they  have  become  used  to  handling  the  pots 
and  lifting  the  weights,  he  lets  them  find  out  by  ex- 
periment how  many  pints  will  go  into  a  quart  jug, 
and  how  many  ounces  will  balance  half  a  lb.  In 
another  part  of  the  room  he  sets  the  children  to 
counting  with  real  coins- and  perhaps  improvises  a 
counter  and  installs  a  shopkeeper.  The  children  gain 
gradually  some  idea  of  number.  They  cannot  say 
the  Multiplication  table  by  heart,  but  when  they  as- 
sert that  two  and  two  make  four  they  have  some 
notion  what  this  statement  means.  They  do  not 
merely  memorize  figures.  They  learn  to  measure  and 
calculate. 

It  is  not  the  motor  alone  who  is  helped  by  the 
development  of  the  muscular  sense  and  memory.  The 
feeble-minded  of  every  degree  and  order  depend  in 
large  measure  on  the  training  in  movement — on 
the  association  of  definite  movements  with  aural  and 
visual  impressions.  For,  as  we  shall  see  by-and-bye, 
the  great  weakness  of  such  children  is  that,  owing  to 


i28  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

vices  of  conformation,  or  arrest  of  one  centre  or  another, 
the  brain  develops  irregularly  and  the  connexions  are 
often  very  slight.  For  example — A  child  will  learn 
to  write  and  copy,  who  yet  cannot  remember  sounds 
(or  write  to  dictation).  Or  he  will  recognize  an  object 
very  well,  yet  cannot  associate  it  with  any  word,  or 
learn  its  name.  It  is  in  the  establishment  of  new 
associations,  or  the  re-inforcement  of  feeble  ones  that 
progress  consist. 

The  speech  of  feeble-minded  children  is  often  defect- 
ive. Many  suffer  from  adenoid  growths — which  can 
be  easily  removed — and  are  mouth-breathers.  The 
first  duty  of  a  teacher  in  such  cases  is  to  report 
to  the  doctor,  so  that  the  simple  operation  of  remov- 
ing the  growths  can  be  made.  She  ought  then  to 
give  breathing  drill — or  what  is  even  better — see  that 
the  child  has  the  exercise  that  induces  right  breathing 
— that  he  climbs,  swims,  runs,  etc.  .  If  the  lips  hang 
down  the  child  should  be  made  to  grip  a  ruler,  to 
climb  bars  hand  over  hand,  or  he  may  have  lip-exercises. 
Finally,  lessons  in  articulation  must  be  given. 

Here  again  the  pupil  must  learn,  not  by  mere  sound 
and  imitation — but  through  the  association  of  definite 
sounds  with  definite  movements.  The  oral  system  by 
which  the  deaf  learn  to  speak  is  equally  adapted 
for   the    feeble-minded.     Let    the  teacher  make  every 


THE  FEEBLE-MINDED  CHILD.  129 

sound,  with  the  appropriate  movements,  keeping  the 
child  in  front  of  her,  and  require  him  to  imitate  her. 
At  first  this  will  be  a  difficult  task.  For  it  exacts 
attention  on  the  part  of  the  pupil.  If  necessary,  one 
must  let  him  feel  the  movements  of  the  throat  and 
tongue ;  and  when  he  is  weary  of  this  the  teacher 
should  place  him  with  his  back  to  her  knees, 
and,  with  a  mirror  in  front  of  both,  continue  the 
exercises. 

Seguin  began  by  teaching  not  the  vowels,  but  the 
consonants. 

He  then  gave  as  an  exercise  the  articulation  of 
syllables  composed  of  a  vowel  and  a  consonant  as  AH. 

Then  came  lip-exercises.  (This  is  not  the  order  of 
nature.  But  though  the  race  began  with  gutturals,  it 
is  not  necessary  for  us  to  go  back  quite  so  far !) 

Then  double  syllables  such  as  pa-pa,  and  later 
isolated  syllables  and  words. 

As  auditives  are  very  fond  of  chattering,  and  form 
the  bad  habit  of  pronouncing  words  whose  meanings 
they  do  not  understand,  it  is  not  wise  to  let  them  learn 
recitations;  J  and,  moreover,  when  they  utter  a  word 
the  teacher  must  try  to  see  whether  they  associate  it 

1  Just  as  some  feeble-minded  children  can  throw  a  ball  deftly,  others 
can  speak   fluently.     To   let   these  recite   may  be  a  perfectly  useless 


130  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

with   anything,    or  know  its  meaning,  and  discourage 
its  use  until  the  meaning  is  learned. 

We  see  now  why  the  word  "idiot"  is  so  sadly 
and  variously  suggestive.  It  means  a  creature  who 
lives  alone — cut  off  from  the  world.  But  why  is  the 
"idiot"  alone?  Mainly  because  the  organs  of  his 
own  body — the  centres  of  his  own  brain  are  isolated. 
It  is  in  virtue  of  closer  and  richer  associations  that 
the  mental  life  of  one  person  is  higher  than  that 
of  another.  The  physical -basis  of  those  associations 
are  of  course  the  cells  of  the  higher  centres,  but  also 
the  system  of  connecting  fibres  that  put  these  into 
communication.  The  highest  connections  are  the  last 
to  be  established.  Flechzig  affirms  that  the  fibres 
connected  with  what  he  calls  "the  intellectual  cen- 
tres" are  a  month  later  in  gaining  the  medullary 
sheath  than  are  the  fibres  connecting  the  other  cen- 
tres. The  brain  of  the  feeble-minded  child  usually 
represents  an  unusual  arrest — and  consequent  isolation. 
At  one  point  or  another  the  connecting  fibres  of  the 
higher  centres  have  failed  to  attain  normal  develop- 
ment. And  therefore  every  exercise  which  tends  to 
develop  the  power  of  association  is  peculiarly  useful 
for  him. 

The   average  child  can  dispense  with  many  things. 


THE  FEEBLE-MINDED  CHILD.  131 

The  gifted  person  is  often  impatient.  "Ah!  what  a 
lot  of  trouble  Pestalozzi  gives  himself,"  cried  Dussault, 
"  in  order  to  show  the  children  that  they  have  a  nose 
in  the  middle  of  their  faces. "  Normal  children  learn 
almost  unconsciously,  and  it  is  not  necessary  to  analyse, 
still  less  to  interrupt  the  rapid  mental  processes  that 
take  place  in  them  every  moment.  For  example. 
Here  is  a  child  who  sees  a  bell  for  the  first  time. 
He  touches  it,  looks  at  it,  and  finally  listens  to  it 
ringing.  Henceforward  the  word  "  bell "  awakens  in 
him  various  images  which  are  so  well  connected  that 
they  seem  to  be  but  one.  He  no  sooner  hears  the  word 
"bell"  than  images  of  the  sound,  surface,  form,  etc.  of  a 
bell  present  themselves  simultaneously.  But  here  is 
another  child — a  feeble-minded  child.  Place  the  bell 
in  front  of  him — let  him  touch  it — hear  it  ring.  His 
sense-organs  are  good.  His  eyes  are  excellent — so  are 
his  ears — and  yet  you  find  that  he  cannot  quickly 
form  any  idea  of  the  bell,  nor  remember  what  a  bell 
is, — the  sight  of  a  bell  to-morrow  will  not  suggest  to 
him  the  ringing,  nor  vice  versa.  For  his  impressions 
are  disconnected,  so  that  they  leave  no  trace,  or  but 
a  faint  and  formless  trace  in  memory. 

This  is  why  his  teacher  must  strive  not  merely  to 
exercise  the  sense-organs,  but  to  establish  and  strengthen 
associations  between   them.     The  teacher  of  "idiots" 


132  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

makes  the  child  touch  an  object,  smell  it,  taste  it,  look 
at  it.  If  the  object  is  one  from  which  sound  can  be 
educed,  she  strikes  it  so  that  the  pupil  may  hear.  Then 
she  names  it — gives  the  child  the  word,  if  necessary- 
trains  him  to  utter  it.  All  this  has  to  be  gone  through, 
not  once,  but  many  times.  It  is,  perhaps,  after  many 
years  of  effort  and  training  that  the  poor  child  begins 
to  have  connected,  and  at  last  fused  impressions,  and 
acquires  a  new  kind  of  memory — of  a  higher  kind  that 
mere  organic  memory.  But  once  he  does  acquire  con- 
scious memory  he  begins  in  some  simple  fashion  to 
compare  and  to  reason.  All  this  is  possible  with  the 
idiot.  Much  more  is  possible  with  a  feeble-minded  child. 
Not  that  the  word  "  Object-Lesson"  is  one  to  charm 
with  1  Formerly  it  was  considered  such.  But  now  we 
have  had  our  eyes  opened — we  have  learned  by  sad 
experience  that  even  good  things  degenerate  in  a 
stagnant  atmosphere.  "People  do  not  know  what  a 
waste  of  time  object-lessons  are!"  cried  Bertrand. 
"And  what  deceptions  they  prepare  for  the  teacher. 
They  send  the  mind  to  sleep  . .  .  and  prepare  for  it 
visions  and  dreams":  and  again,  "The  Object-Lesson 
hypnotises  the  pupils" — All  this  may  be  true  to-day. 
People  dream  over  work  when  it  is  so  difficult  that  they 
are  in  despair  and  attempt  nothing.  But  they  also 
dream  over  work  which  is  too  easy,  so  that  they  are 


THE  FEEBLE-MINDED  CHILD.  133 

little  occupied,  and  this  is  what  often  happens  in  the 
objectlesson.  Just  as  baby  literature  is  provided  for 
vigorous  little  people  who  would  enjoy  reading  master- 
pieces, so  they  are  often  asked  to  find  obvious  re- 
semblance where  they  should  look  for  fine  distinctions. 
The  lesson  is  often  made  too  easy.  The  average 
child  has  a  fund  of  mental  energy  which  can  be  called 
into  action,  not  by  instruction,  but  through  stimulus 
and  self-dependence.  This,  in  the  day  of  large  classes, 
we  readily  forget !  Well,  the  feeble-minded  child  also 
has  latent  power  in  which  we  must  sometimes  show 
faith !  For  it  is  often  more  troublesome  to  let  a  child 
alone,  than  to  teach  him  1  He  also  should  be  left  some- 
times, as  a  northern  man  once  observed,  "to  poozle 
things  out  for  himself." 

This  does  not  mean,  of  course,  that  he  is  to  be  left 
early  or  long  to  his  own  resources.  The  feeble-minded 
differs  from  the  average  and  gifted  child  mainly  in 
this — that  while  the  former  may  easily  be  ruined  by 
too  zealous  assistance,  the  latter  must  inevitably  lapse 
if  not  followed  even  into  adult  life  by  the  help  and  care 
of  others.  The  strong  flame  finds  plenty  of  fuel  in 
the  open,  and  there  blazes  quickly  up  into  a  pillar  of 
cloud  or  fire.  But  the  flame  that  has  been  fanned  on 
the  broken  altar  of  a  faulty  brain  is  easily  blown  out. 

"  Go   forth   now,   and  be  a  man,"   the  teacher  may 


134  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

say  without  too  much  irony  to  many  a  boy  of  twelve 
or  thirteen.  But  to  feeble-minded  girls  of  sixteen 
or  seventeen  the  teacher  cannot  say  this.  For  they 
will  be  children  always.  They  grow  up  to  find  them- 
selves exposed  to  new  dangers,  but  alas  1  not  to  gain 
the  power  of  escaping  from  them.  Thus  it  is  almost 
more  necessary  to  follow  them  after  they  have  attained 
adolescence  with  protection  and  surveillance  than  it 
is  to  teach  and  train  them  while  they  are  very  little. 

If  at  the  door  of  the  school  they  are  thrown  on 
their  own  resources,  it  may  very  well  happen  that  even 
the  arts  they  have  learned  will  prove  a  snare  to 
them.  They  can  read  and  write  and  use  these  powers 
as  a  cripple  wears  top-boots.  They  hide  weakness 
from  the  eyes  of  the  superficial  observer,  and  the 
human  faculties  which  have  been  partially  developed 
in  the  reading  or  writing  lesson  are  put  to  an  over- 
whelming  test,  and  fail  like  a  small  craft  in  a  storm. 

No.  The  outside  world  is  not  the  place  for  the 
feeble-minded.  The  boys  are  soon  discovered  no  mat- 
ter how  well  they  can  write  1  And  though  some  may 
by  good  chance  find  an  opportunity  to  earn  a  living 
by  manual  labour,  they  are  soon  pushed  aside.  Men 
more  highly  endowed  than  they  are  supplanted  by 
the  mentally  fit.  As  for  the  girls  they  are  even  more 
unfortunate.     They  are  exposed  to  every  kind  of  pitfall. 


THE  FEEBLE-MINDED  CHILD.  135 

Deceptions  and  ruin  wait  for  them.  True  they  may  be 
"fortunate"  and  marry  early;  but  such  an  event  is 
anything  but  fortunate  for  the  race.  The  human  em- 
bryo presents  no  greater  morphological  resemblance 
to  the  mother  than  to  the  father,  but  it  is  not  the 
less  peculiarly  related  to  the  mother  pathologically 
— thanks  to  certain  obscure  causes  originating  in  the 
function  of  what  scientists  call  the  "vitelline  plasma". 
"If  you  want  great  men,  you  must  find  great  moth- 
ers," said  a  statesman.  And  if  we  want  to  multiply 
degenerates  we  have  but  to  facilitate  the  marriage  of 
the  feeble-minded  girl. 

Yet  the  human  powers  developed  in  the  feeble- 
minded by  training  are  precious — and  may  be  for 
themselves,  though  not  for  their  progeny,  a  means  of 
security  and  salvation.  This  doubtful  fire  which  has 
burst  from  the  dark  world  of  mere  organic  life  can 
be  kept  alight — and  can  give  warmth  and  light;  it  is 
easy  in  one  sense  to  keep  it  alight.  True,  all  the 
new  acquirements  are  held  on  a  slight  tenure.  But 
while  they  are  held  at  all  the  lower  nature  is  pretty 
sure  to  be  in  abeyance. 

Moreover,  example  is  powerful  anywhere.  In  a 
home  for  the  feeble-minded  it  is  paramount.  For  these 
poor,  disinherited  members  of  our  human  family  fol- 
low any  initiative,  accept  any  model,  and  yield  to  any 


136  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

external  influence.  They  have  faith  like  children.  Like 
children,  too,  they  are  happy  in  obedience  to  benign 
authority.  Whatever  their  social  rank  they  belong  to 
a  lowly  order,  and  they  find  their  own  best  interests, 
as  well  as  that  of  others  served  in  their  performance 
of  the  lowlier  tasks.  For  the  women,  household  work  ; 
for  the  men  field  labour,  or  workshop  tasks  (of  a  mecha- 
nical kind)  involving  massive  movement  adapted  to 
practical  ends,  such  are  the  exercises  best  suited  to  them. 
Centuries  ago  the  monks  of  Spain  held  classes  for 
feeble-minded  persons  of  all  ranks.  "We  cure  all,"  said 
one  good  father  naively.  "  All  save  the  nobles — who 
think  themselves  degraded  by  manual  toil." 

Thus  Nature  seems  to  establish  her  own  social 
ranks  and  order,  and  to  make  promotion  as  well  as 
happiness  depend  on  faithfulness.  But  this  does  not 
of  course  mean  that  the  helpless  and  feeble  are  to 
be  converted  into  drudges.  What  love  or  capacity 
they  have  for  literature,  music,  painting  should  be 
cherished  and  strengthened.  Whatever  love  of  beauty 
they  possess  should  be  continually  stimulated  and 
gratified.  Outside  is  the  great  world  which  they  are 
not  able  to  enter.  But  the  same  influences  that  make 
life  worth  living  in  that  larger  world,  that  irradiate  and 
sweeten  and  uplift  it,  exist  for  them  also,  though  their 
minds,   like   smaller   vessels,  can  contain  but  a  lesser 


THE  FEEBLE-MINDED  CHILD.  137 

share  of  woe  or  happiness.  To  live  under  benign 
influences,  and  to  exercise  what  powers  they  possess 
are  the  rights  of  the  feeble-minded. 

That  Homes  where  they  may  thus  live  shall  be 
established  in  larger  numbers  must  be  the  ardent  wish, 
not  merely  of  the  friends  of  the  feeble-minded,  but  of 
all  lovers  of  the  human  race. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

THE  COST   OF   MENTAL   EFFORT. 

"  I  AM  against  the  feeding  of  school-children  out  of 
the  rates,"  said  a  philanthropist  the  other  day.  "  Educa- 
tion is  an  artificial  need  for  which  the  State  is  in  a 
measure  responsible,  and  which  therefore  the  State  may 
supply.  But  food  is  a  natural  want.  Every  parent 
ought  to  feed  his,  or  her  own  child.  They  have  virtually 
bound  themselves  to  do  so  in  becoming  parents  at  all." 

Such  words  are  spoken  every  day,  not  by  one  man, 
but  by  many.  Thousands  who  express  no  opinion  at 
all  on  the  subject  of  free  dinners  denounce  State  feeding 
of  children  by  their  own  example  and  life.  From  time 
immemorial  parents  have  provided  food  for  their  own 
children  without  asking  for  any  assistance  from  the 
State.  Even  among  the  very  poor  there  are  not 
wanting  men  and  women  who  display  the  greatest 
zeal  and  devotion  in  discharging  the  higher  as  well 
as  the  more  elementary  duties  of  parents.  To  take 
an  example.  The  Master  of  a  Higher  Grade  School 
is  one  day  called  out  to  see  a  father  who  has  come 
to  enrol  his  son — a  boy  of  twelve  or  thirteen.  The 
father  is  a  slight,  undergrown  man  with  an  income 
of  1 8^.  per  week,  and  five  children  to  provide  for  out 


THE  COST  OF  MENTAL  EFFORT.  139 

of  that.  (Two  of  the  children  have,  however,  won 
scholarships,  and  one  has  a  maintenance  scholarship.) 
"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  this  boy?"  asked  the 
master.  "Why,"  cries  the  father  with  sparkling  eyes, 
"  I  am  thinking  of  getting  him  into  the  Civil  Service." 
The  struggle  of  such  brave  parents  is  shared  by  the 
children.  While  they  are  yet  hardly  out  of  their  cradles 
they  learn  the  meaning  of  suffering — and  also  of  noble 
devotion.  That  is  to  say  they  have  certain  educational 
advantages  which  are  quite  out  of  the  reach  of  those 
whose  path  is  smoothed  by  expensive  coaches  and 
private  tutors.  The  psychologist  tells  us  that  we  must 
look  for  the  causes  of  all  that  is  normal  or  abnormal 
in  a  personality  in  the  organism  itself — in  the  move- 
ments and  changes  of  all  the  parts  and  members  and 
the  relations  of  this — that  the  personality  is  indeed 
the  equivalent  of  these  movements  and  relations.  A 
child  or  man  does  not  therefore  represent  a  number 
of  distinct  localities  or  functions  bearing  no  relation 
to  one  another.  The  impressions  he  receives  are  not 
like  so  many  messages  travelling  along  isolated  tele- 
graph wires,  and  received  as  detached  communications 
at  isolated  centres  of  the  brain.  On  the  contrary,  every 
impression  is  like  the  movement  of  a  thread  which  is 
inextricably  entangled  or  rather  inwoven  with  thou- 
sands   of   other    threads.     This    movement    not    only 


i4o  EARLY  CHILDHOOD.      . 

affects  all  the  other  threads — it  may  pull  them  all 
into  a  new  pattern.  What  a  child  feels  determines 
in  some  measure  what  he  thinks.  What  he  thinks 
reacts  on  the  emotional  Nature.  So  that  one  can 
never  say,  "Thus  far  shall  this  experience  affect  me 
and  no  further.  It  shall  determine  what  I  feel  when 
I  am  walking  in  the  fields ;  but  it  shall  not  affect 
me  in  the  least  when  I  am  working  in  the  study  or 
the  laboratory."  For  it  is  the  same  organism  that  lives 
and  works  in  the  field  and  the  laboratory,  and  the 
mind  that  works  in  either  place  is  the  product,  not 
of  one  set  of  movements  and  experiences,  but  of  all. 
This  being  so  no  one  can  predict  all  the  effects  of  any 
experience.  A  child  whose  parents  have  made  sacrifices, 
and  who  is  the  witness  of  daily  suffering  endured  for 
his  sake,  or  who  shares  the  joys,  and  anxieties  of  his 
elders  almost  from  babyhood,  is  educated  one  would 
say,  to  feel  sympathy  with  others.  Yes !  probably  he 
will  be  more  sympathetic.  But  this  is  not  the  only 
result  of  such  education.  A  certain  originality  of 
viewing  problems,  a  subtle  insight  — a  mental  power  or 
peculiarity  which  gives  a  new  advantage — these  are  in 
many  cases  the  fruits  of  early  struggles.  Alas  1  There 
may  be  other  results — not  desirable,  but  the  reverse. 
Samuel  Johnson  was  full  of  sympathy  for  persons  in 
great  trouble !     He  knew  very  well  what  great  trouble 


THE  COST  OF  MENTAL  EFFORT.  141 

meant ;  but  he  expressed  only  contempt  for  those  who 
complained  of  what  seemed  to  him  minor  evils.  A  still 
greater  thinker  was  harsh  at  times  to  sufferers  whom 
he  could  not  understand.  Such  bitter  fruits  may  follow 
a  rugged  spring-time — the  evil  surviving  with  the 
good,  like  strangling  creepers  about  precious  trees. 

No  system  of  education  can  be  guaranteed  to  yield 
only  the  best  results.  But  the  great  thinker,  inventor, 
or  even  philanthropist  is  seldom  a  man  who  has  been 
educated  by  rule,  and  at  the  expense  of  strangers. 
Much  oftener  he  is  one  who  has  shared  the  strenuous 
life  of  poor  and  close  kindred,  felt  the  breezes  of 
healthy  human  emotions,  and  been  nurtured  to  health 
and  fulness  of  stature  under  the  shadow  of  home. 

So  all  poor  parents  who  educate  their  children  at 
their  own  expense  bestow  on  them  certain  advantages 
which  they  and  their  children  are  equally  unconscious 
of  giving  or  receiving,  but  which  are  not  within  the 
gift  of  the  well-to-do.  Indeed  all  poor  parents  who 
even  feed  their  own  offspring  have  a  vital  and  perma- 
nent influence  on  their  education.  For  the  struggle  or 
sacrifice  of  which  the  child  is  a  witness,  and  which  is 
undertaken  for  his  sake,  becomes  a  powerful  influence  in 
his  life,  and  plays  a  great  part  in  his  intellectual  as 
well  as  in  his  moral  development.  He  receives  all 
the   new    learning   that   comes   to   him   in  a  "solvent 


142  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

of  love  and  gratitude."  "There  will  always  be  some 
who  will  choose  poverty,"  said  a  great  writer.  Doubt- 
less this  is  true :  there  will  always  be  some  who  can 
discover  the  pearl  that  is  hidden  in  the  folds  of  the 
garment  of  poverty.  But  those  seekers  are  not  parents. 
Fathers  and  mothers  will  hardly  choose  poverty,  though 
they  may  nobly  endure  it.  But  even  they  learn  at 
last  that  sacrifice  brings  recompense.  Their  sons  and 
daughters  enjoy  peculiar  educational  advantages  which 
are  not  within  the  gift  of  "The  State." 

There  is,  however,  a  certain  number  of  parents  in 
nearly  every  civilized  country  who  cannot,  or  will  not, 
assume  even  the  lower  responsibilities — who  cannot,  or 
will  not,  provide  sufficient  food  for  their  offspring.  It 
has  been  ascertained  that  in  spite  of  the  activity  of  many 
charitable  agencies,  thousands  of  children  go  break- 
fastless  to  school  every  morning.  In  face  of  these 
hungry  little  ones  the  State  assumes  responsibilities. 
"  You  have  to  be  educated,"  it  affirms.  "That  is  my 
business.  You  have  to  learn  such  and  such  things — 
to  pass  such  and  such  examinations." 

"Well,  the  State  has  a  right  to  compel  them  to  attend 
school,"  cries  the  average  rate-payer.  "  These  are  the 
very  children  who  ought  to  be  looked  after.  The  schools 
are  built.  Education  is  provided.  The  children  must  be 
compelled  to  take  the  schooling  that  is  offered  to  them." 


THE  COST  OF  MENTAL  EFFORT.  143 

Education  is  still  regarded,  you  see,  by  the  average 
rate-payer  as  a  kind  of  commodity,  which  you  can 
accept  without  any  trouble  when  it  is  offered  to  you 
for  nothing. 

Yet  a  child  in  the  class-room  is  certainly  not  in  the 
position  of  a  person  who  merely  appropriates  some- 
thing which  is  handed  to  him  gratis.  To  be  sure  the 
mental  work  of  a  little  child  appears  to  amount  to 
nothing  at  all.  He  writes  and  reads.  No  one  thinks 
seriously  of  such  mental  work  as  that?  And  yet  to 
the  unprepared  organism  every  new  exercise  means 
work  and  very  serious  work.  Even  in  order  to  learn 
one's  A.  B.  C.  one  has  to  make  many  new  movements, 
to  hold  one's  attention  fixed,  to  control  and  exercise 
oneself  in  various  ways.  All  this  means  work,  and 
work  implies  waste — and  change ! 

All  work  has  a  swift  and  general  effect  on  the 
organism.  This  fact  we  are  very  ready  to  admit — 
when  the  result  of  labour  is  formidable  or  obviously 
useful  to  us.  The  farmer  or  teamster  is  careful  of 
his  horses,  he  sees  that  they  have  sufficient  food  after 
hard  labour.  No  mistress  cuts  down  a  servant's  rations 
on  washing  days.  But  mental  work  influences  the  organ- 
ism even  more  seriously  than  muscular  labour.  This 
is  obvious  from  the  fact  that  it  affects,  not  merely  the 
amount,   but    the   chemical   composition,  of  the  secre- 


144  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

tions.  And  yet  few  people  calculate  or  even  think 
about  the  effect  of  mental  work.  Many  appear  to 
think  that  mental  work  is  only  a  kind  of  idleness. 
The  reason  is,  perhaps,  that  the  work  of  the  ordinary 
student  does  not  directly  affect  other  people  to  any 
great  extent.  Everyone  admits  that  the  great  sur- 
geon, inventor,  or  even  artist,  must  suffer  more  or 
less  at  times  from  mental  overwork.  But  these  great 
people  do  not  take  the  public  much  into  their  con- 
fidence. Meantime  the  average  man  refuses  to  take 
the  intellectual  labour  of  school  children  very  seriously. 
Everyone  has  to  learn  to  read,  write,  and  cipher.  But 
what  does  all  that  amount  to?  The  average  man 
thinks  of  children's  mental  work  as  a  kind  of  variation 
of  child's  play,  and  there,  for  him,  the  matter 
ends. 

And  yet  children's  work  is  no  child's  play — to  them. 
In  order  to  learn  to  write,  for  example,  certain  associa- 
tions of  delicate  movements  have  to  be  established 
for  the  first  time.  This  is  done,  perhaps  rapidly,  but 
never  without  difficulty.  Of  course  the  difficulty  is 
not  a  thing  to  be  feared  or  avoided.  On  the  contrary, 
there  is  no  real  education  possible  where  difficulties 
are  continually  smoothed  away,  and  the  need  of 
independent  effort  denied.  Yet  it  is  well  to  remember 
that   the    first   steps  cost  something.     When   the  first 


THE  COST  OF  MENTAL  EFFORT. 


H5 


years  of  childhood  are  over,  the  visual,  oral,  and 
muscular  memories  co-operate  and  reinforce  one 
another  so  that  we  perform  many  movements  which 
in  the  beginning  were  learned  with  conscious  and 
perhaps  painful  effort. 

The  mental  work  of  children,  which  appears  to  many 
to  cost  nothing  at  all,  has  its  price — and  what  is  more, 
a  fixed  price.  The  effort  of  singing  costs  more  than 
that  of  reading.  Mental  calculation  produces  quicken- 
ing of  respiration  of  from  two  to  four  breaths  per 
minute.  Some  other  exercises  have  a  more  serious 
influence  (though  not  necessarily  of  course  a  harmful 
one).  The  quickened  respiration  subsides  only  gradually 
when  the  effort  has  ceased. 

Below  is  a  table,  from  a  work  by  Messrs.  Binet  and 
Ferre,  giving  the  rate  of  Respiration  in  various  pupils 
before,  during,  and  after  intense  intellectual  labour. 


SUBJECTS 

E 

DURATION   OF 
WORK 

RATE    OF 

RESPIRATION 

BEFORE 

DURING 

AFTER 

55  Seconds 

IO-5 

13-5 

12. 1 

E 

9° 

12 

i5-i 

I3-I 

C 

80 

7-5 

7-3 

I0.5 

C 

150 

9 

9.1 

9.5 

Ci 

42 

7-5 

io-5 

9-5 

Pi 

40 

15 

18.1 

12 

Ph 

60 

11.5 

15.1 

131 

146  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

(It  may  be  here  noted  that  children  breathe  more 
quickly  than  adults.  A  healthy  grown-up  person 
breathes  from  16  to  18  times  per  minute.  A  child 
of  six  breathes  from  20  to  26  times,  and  a  child  of 
two,  from  35  to  50  times  in  the  same  period.) 

People  breathe,  as  they  eat — in  order  to  get  some 
thing  they  need.  If  they  did  not  need  food  or  oxygen, 
they  might  never  eat  nor  breathe  at  all.  But  the  need 
is  very  urgent.  Under  stress  of  hunger  poor  Oliver 
Twist  "asked  for  more".  All  the  pauper  boys  were 
shocked,  and  so  was  Mr.  Bumble.  But  even  pauper 
boys  help  themselves  to  any  oxygen  that  is  going, 
without  asking  permission.  And  this  is  why  oxygen 
becomes  scarce  even  in  schools  where  discipline  is  stern, 
if  the  windows  are  not  opened,  and  the  air-space 
is  inadequate. 

Here  are  a  few  more  figures  and  facts  from  the 
work  of  Ferre  and  Binet. 

A  man  spent  an  idle  day.  On  this  day  of  idleness 
he  absorbed  234  gr.  of  Oxygen — throwing  off  532  gr. 
of  Carbon  Dioxide. 

The  next  day  he  engaged  in  Manual  Work,  and 
his  demand  for  Oxygen  increased,  for  he  absorbed 
294  gr.  of  Oxygen,  liberating  884  gr.  of  COa. 

It  is,  however,  during  sleep  that  loss  is  made  good 
and  the  balance  restored. 


THE  COST  OF  MENTAL  EFFORT.  147 

On  the  night  that  followed  the  idle  day  the  man 
absorbed  in  sleep  474  gr.  of  Oxygen,  and  liberated 
378  gr.  of  Carbon  Dioxide. 

But  on  the  night  following  the  working  day  he 
absorbed  659  gr.  of  Oxygen,  and  liberated  391  gr. 
of  CO2. 

This  worker  made  large  movements,  used  his 
arms,  went  and  came.  But  we  have  seen  that  the 
movements  involved  in  mental  labour,  if  not  so 
obvious  to  the  casual  observer,  are  more  rapid 
than  coarser  movements  and  alter  more  radically  the 
composition  of  the  tissues.  Speck  calculated  the 
relative  amount  of  oxygen  absorbed  in  a  very  short 
period  by  a  person  engaging,  not  in  muscular,  but  in 
mental  labour. 


In  a  State  of  Repose  0.456  gr.  of  O 

During  intellectual  Labour      0.507  gr.  of  O 


C03.  liberated 

0.553  gr- 
O.583  gr. 


Speck  was  dealing  with  adults. 

The  adult  has  greater  power  of  concentration  than 
the  child.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  the  child  is  subject 
to  more  rapid  changes  through  the  activity  of  the 
emotional  life.  Every  thought,  every  emotion,  every 
sensation  is  accompanied  by  a  change  in  the  composi- 
tion of  the  substance  of  the  brain. 


148 


EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 


Below    is    a    table    showing    the    effect    of    mental 
Work  on  the  Heart  Action. 


SUBJECTS 

DURATION   OF 
MENTAL  WORK 

HEART-ACTION 
BEFORE  WORK 

DURING 

AFTER 

E 

90  Seconds 

75 

99 

90.8 

c 

80 

70 

75 

75-6 

C 

150 

70 

75 

68 

Pi 

40 

72 

74 

76 

Ph 

60 

72 

80 

77 

F 

42 

70 

78 

73 

Such  facts  as  these  leave  us  no  room  to  doubt  that 
education  means,  not  merely  an  interference  with  a 
child's  mind,  or  with  his  habits  and  ways  of  thinking 
or  acting — but  with  the  organism  itself.  This  inter- 
ference is  quite  justifiable  as  long  as  it  is  not  inju- 
rious. But  when  it  becomes  injurious  the  interference 
is  nothing  more  nor  less  than  an  assault.  Now  in 
order  to  avoid  inflicting  injury,  persons  in  authority 
must  ascertain  fully  the  nature  and  effects  of  the 
interference  implied  in  compulsory  education.  Here, 
for  example,  is  a  class  of  sixty  children  assembled 
in  a  school-room.  They  are  engaged,  in  what  is 
for  them,  hard  mental  work.  The  first  condition 
of  health  and  safety  is,  of  course,  an  abundant 
supply  of  pure  air,  provision  for  the  rapid  removal 
of   the    poisonous   matter  which    we    know    is    being 


THE  COST  OF  MENTAL  EFFORT.  149 

swiftly  generated.  Have  the  authorities  considered 
what  amount  of  oxygen  is  necessary  for  working 
children;  or  have  they  been  content  merely  to  deter- 
mine what  is  required  for  children  in  repose  ?  If  they 
have  thought  only  of  what  is  needed  by  the  child  at 
rest,  they  are  acting  like  masters  who  feed  their  hard- 
worked  servants  without  any  consideration  for  the 
labour  exacted  from  them.  And  this  is  not  merely 
unkind,  it  is  unjustifiable. 

And  now  we  must  consider  another  result  of  mental 
work — to  wit,  the  increased  demand  for  food. 

Not  that  all  students  have  a  good  appetite.  On  the 
contrary  the  appetite  of  many  pupils  dwindles  away 
gradually  as  the  school-year  progresses,  and  disap- 
pears altogether  at  the  approach  of  the  examination  1 
Binet  found  in  the  Ecole  d'  Institutrice  d'  Epinal  the 
consumption  of  bread  declined  steadily  from  October 
to  July.  Then  came  the  examination  week  with  all 
its  excitement  and  anxiety ;  and  during  that  week  the 
pupils  ate  less  than  at  any  period  in  the  year.  This, 
doubtless  is  a  fair  illustration  of  what  happens  in  most 
schools.  The  testimony  of  parents  and  teachers  alike 
tends  to  confirm  the  view  that  the  later  the  term  the 
smaller  the  appetite.  Binet,  however,  was  not  satisfied 
with  the  information  he  had  collected,  so  he  began  to 
test  his  conclusions  in  a  new  way.     He  collected  figures 


150  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

giving  the  rate  of  the  diminution  of  weight  after  the 
examinations  of  pupils  in  the  Normal  School  of  Ver- 
sailles. The  pupils  were  weighed  in  May,  and  again 
after  the  examinations  at  the  beginning  of  August. 
Of  20  pupils  the  weight  of  12  diminished  after  the 
examinations. 

Now  it  has  been  found  that  in  prisons,  homes,  and 
other  places  where  people  are  gathered  together,  the 
consumption  of  food  does  not  diminish  month  by 
month  from  October  to  July.  Neither  do  the  inmates 
suddenly  lose  weight  between  May  and  August.  Much 
less   should  working  children  lose  weight  or  appetite  1 

To  be  sure,  the  "  work"  done  by  languid  and  anaemic 
children  is  inconsiderable— generally  quite  worthless. 
Nothing  can  come  of  nothing.  Is  it  not  wonderful  how 
many  proofs  and  reminders  people  need  in  order  to 
be  convinced  of  this  ?  Little  students  who  do  not  eat 
cannot  go  on  working — for  the  question  of  nutrition 
is  at  the  very  base  of  all  elementary  education. 
Nutrition  takes  place  when  the  vital  force  is  par- 
amount— that  is  to  say  when  the  vitality  is  high 
enough  to  overcome  the  chemical  forces  that  oppose 
it.  Now  mental  activity  depends  on  nutrition  just  as 
a  fisherman  depends  on  the  tides.  When  the  tide  is 
full  in  a  great  many  interesting  things  may  take  place. 
For   example.     The   branches   that   extend   on  either 


THE  COST  OF  MENTAL  EFFORT.  151 

side  of  the  pyramidal  cell  of  the  human  cortex  are 
sometimes  extended  in  living  contact.  But  when  ? 
In  times  of  ennui,  fatigue,  or  restraint?  No;  at  such 
times  they  languish  apart.  But  when  the  vitality  is 
high  the  interchange  (which  is  the  physical  basis  of 
a  new  moral  and  mental  advance)  takes  place.  If  a 
child  is  merely  rendered  faint  by  his  studies,  how 
can  the  elements  of  a  new  life  be  elaborated  in  him  ? 
Happily  all  students  do  not  cease  to  make  new 
demands  even  in  the  elementary  schools.  Here,  for 
example,  is  a  group  of  very  hopeful  children.  They 
have  known  what  hunger  is  all  their  lives,  but  never 
have  they  been  so  hungry  as  they  are  now.  When 
they  were  very  little  they  used  to  get  scraps  of  food, 
and  now  and  again,  a  good  meal :  and  this  was  enough 
to  allow  them  to  live  a  free,  careless  life  in  the  fields  or 
alleys.  But  at  last  the  School-Board  officer  got  on  their 
track.  They  were  led  into  a  big  school  and  obliged  to 
read,  write,  sing,  calculate.  Not  one  of  these  exer- 
cises but  involves  a  quickening  of  all  the  life  pro- 
cesses, a  new  expenditure  at  a  definite  rate  of  nervous 
energy  and  living  tissue.  Lo  1  At  noon  all  the  chil- 
dren are  ravenously  hungry.  The  thought  that  dinner 
is  a  movable  feast — that  there  is  no  dinner  to  be  had 
— is  now  a  dreadful  one!  Yesterday's  hunger  was 
a  mild  thing  compared  with  to-day's.     What  is  to  be 


152  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

done?  The  State  compels  the  children  to  work — it 
makes  the  demand  for  sustenance  urgent,  intolerable. 
But  it  does  not  compel  parents  to  feed  their  children. 
Hence  it  is  certain  that  to  some  of  these  hungry 
little  ones  free  education  is  less  of  a  boon  than 
an  outrage. 

"I  had  the  great  good  fortune  to  be  very  poor 
when  I  was  a  child,"  said  a  celebrated  French  doctor; 
"so  poor  that  I  could  not  go  to  school  at  all.  If  I 
had  been  sent  to  college  it  would  probably  have  been 
the  death  of  me."  Probably  the  great  doctor  exag- 
gerated :  and  yet  it  is  certain  that  even  the  best 
intentions  of  the  educationalist  are  often  frustrated. 
The  pupil  falls  ill,  for  example,  and  learns  nothing 
at  all.  Or  he  becomes  dull  instead  of  bright  by  dint 
of  learning.  Or  he  seems  to  lose  what  was  promising 
in  his  mind  and  character  and  to  gain  nothing  new 
which  compensates  for  that  loss.  Yesl  the  poor 
educationalist  has  experienced  many  disillusions,  and 
stumbled  on  many  a  covered  rock.  But  one  fact  has 
become  pretty  clear  and  it  is  this — that  mental  work 
has  consequences.  That  it  implies  a  new  expenditure, 
involves  new  demands — and  that  it  cannot  be  carried 
on  successfully  where  the  sources  of  life  and  strength 
are  impoverished.  In  short,  we  have  learned  that  the 
first  conditions  of  education  are — not  new  books  and 


THE  COST  OF  MENTAL  EFFORT.  153 

copy-books,  nor  even  new  schools  and  specialists — but 
an  adequate  Air  and  Food  Supply. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  enter  here  into  the  question 
how  an  adequate  supply  of  food  is  to  be  secured  for 
all.  Various  writers  have  indicated  many  grave  reasons 
for  believing  that  public  subscriptions  cannot  do  the 
work  of  parental  love,  that  the  State  cannot  supply 
all  the  educational  advantages  which  contribute  to 
full  human  development.  None  the  less  it  is  certain 
that  when  the  State  compels  a  hungry  child  to  work, 
it  is  doing  a  thing  which  is,  on  moral  grounds,  in- 
defensible. "  If  any  shall  not  work,  neither  shall  he 
eat,"  said  the  Apostle.  But  what  of  those  who  say 
to  a  child,  "You  shall  work  whether  you  eat  or  not." 
Long  ago  little  workers  were  sent  to  the  mills  to  toil 
all  day  for  a  small  wage,  but  at  least  the  wage  did 
represent  for  them  possible  shelter  and  nourishment. 
Now  they  work  in  the  school,  not  for  any  good  that 
will  come  of  it  to-day,  but  mainly  because  of  some 
advantage  they  will  gain  in  future  years.  But  the 
years  to  come  are  dim  and  distant.  The  needs  of 
to-day  are  present  and  urgent.  And  the  unfed  child, 
receiving  the  violent  bounty  of  an  inexorable  State, 
and  standing  daily  between  the  parent  who  neglects, 
and  the  State  which  compels,  has  indeed  but  a  slender 
chance   of  reaping   any    harvest   in    the    future  which 


154  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

will  compensate  him  for  the  sufferings  of  to-day. 
Such  a  child  may  be  pardoned  if  he  feels  no  thrill 
of  gratitude  even  for  the  benevolent  and  public-spirited 
men  who  would  set  up  the  proverbial  'ladder'  for  him 
from  the  elementary  school  to  the  university.  For 
what  can  education  mean,  for  him,  but  a  series  of 
unreasonable  demands :  and  what  can  the  most  progres- 
sive educationalist  appear  to  him  but  a  man  who 
"lades  him  with  burdens  grievous  to  be  borne." 


CHAPTER   X. 
fatigue:  normal  and  abnormal. 

"I  am  tired,"  said  a  schoolboy,  throwing  himself 
down  on  the  floor. 

The  mother  raised  her  eyes  and  looked  at  him. 
Certainly  the  little  fellow  appeared  exhausted.  His 
limbs  were  stretched  out  limp  and  helpless,  and  his 
hands  lay  in  a  posture  which  cannot  be  simulated, 
and  which  is  expressive  of  utter  weariness.  The  face 
was  pale,  too,  and  the  eyes  dull. 

Suddenly  the  mother  rose  and  drew  open  a  folding- 
door.  A  lively  scene  became  visible.  The  inner 
room  was  brilliantly  lighted  and  prepared  for  a  party, 
Down  the  centre  ran  a  long  table  covered  with  a 
snowy  cloth,  gay  with  fruit  and  flowers,  and  sparkling 
with  glass  and  silver.  In  the  distance  rose  a  platform, 
festooned  and  curtained,  and  furnished  with  Chinese 
lanterns  and  picture  screens. 

"  Oh,  we  are  going  to  have  a  party,"  cried  the 
child, '  springing  suddenly  to  his  feet.  "  A  children's 
party!"  he  added,  in  a  ringing  voice,  hurrying  to  the 
table  and  beginning  to  examine  everything. 


156  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

His  mother  followed  him.  "Where  now  is  his 
fatigue?"  she  asked  herself  as  he  flew  hither  and 
thither,  too  eager  and  excited  even  to  think  of  being 
dressed. 

Every  mother  has  been  struck  by  instances  of  such 
rapid  recuperation.  Many,  perhaps,  wonder  whether 
their  children  are  not  sometimes  acting  a  little  comedy 
when  some  pleasant  expedition  being  proposed  or 
some  joyful  event  announced,  all  signs  of  weariness 
pass  away.  But  the  children  are  not  acting.  The 
secret  of  their  swift  recuperation  in  face  of  a  pleasant 
surprise  lies  in  the  fact  that  human  energy  is  not 
merely  muscular,  but  cerebral.  Fatigue,  therefore,  is 
cerebral,  and  depends  on  the  state  of  the  brain. 

The  little  schoolboy  believed  himself  tired.  He 
believed  also  that  it  would  be  a  good  thing  to  go  to 
bed.  But  the  folding-doors  opened.  A  rain  of  stim- 
ulating vibrations  was  despatched  to  his  brain.  These 
supplied  the  conditions  for  a  new  generation  of  energy, 
and  awakened  associations  of  pleasure.  Instantly  the 
circulation  became  quickened ;  the  muscles,  but  now 
so  limp,  regained  their  tenacity ;  nutrition  became  more 
active — in  short,  the  sum  of  vitality  was  raised. 

Glance,  now,  for  a  moment  at  the  tired  workers  of 
town  or  country  on  Bank  Holiday.  Last  night  they 
trudged  home  from  the  mill  or  workshop,  pale,  weary, 


FATIGUE:  NORMAL  AND  ABNORMAL.  157 

and  dispirited.  After  a  long  day  of  monotonous  work, 
the  women  set  themselves  to  prepare  for  the  morrow — 
perhaps  baked,  scrubbed — and  at  last  went  to  bed 
exhausted.  But  here  they  are  at  the  sea-side,  and  all 
trace  of  weariness  is  gone.  Listen  to  the  shrill  voices 
of  the  women  and  the  loud  laughter  of  the  men. 
They  dance  on  the  sands;  they  jostle  each  other  on 
the  pavement.  They  eat  and  drink  noisily,  and  in  the 
evening,  when  they  start  on  the  homeward  journey, 
the  platform  is  like  a  surging  sea — the  carriages  seem 
as  though  they  were  charged,  like  the  engine,  with  a 
motive  force  which  must  escape  1  Snatches  of  song 
burst  out,  interrupted  by  peals  of  uproarious  laughter. 
Impossible  to  doubt  that  this  torrent  of  human  energy 
flows  the  more  freely  because  some  obscure  hindrance 
has  been  temporarily  removed. 

This  second  example  of  very  swift  recuperation  can 
be  explained  on  the  same  grounds  as  the  revival  of 
the  schoolboy.  In  order  to  understand  either,  we  have 
only  to  look  at  a  map  of  the  human  brain  and  consider 
its  topography.  To  begin  with,  there  are  a  great 
many  centres — that  is  to  say,  places  of  specific  activity 
and  transformation.  For  example,  there  is  one  centre 
for  the  vision  of  words,  but  there  is  another  for  the 
writing  of  them.  There  is  a  centre  for  language;  so 
differentiated  is  it  that  the  power  to  say  one  word  may 


158  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

be  lost,  and  the  power  to  say  all  other  words  retain- 
ed! In  a  kind  of  arch  many  motor  centres  are 
ranged.  And  these  are  believed  by  many  neurologists 
to  be  not  merely  centres  of  movements,  but  centres,  too, 
for  the  reception  and  record  of  innumerable  sensations. 
And  the  sensory  centres  par  excellence — the  centres 
whose  function  it  is  merely  to  receive  vibrations  from 
the  outer  world — how  extraordinary  is  their  differentia- 
tion one  from  the  other  we  may  judge  by  remember- 
ing how  little  one  sense  can  explain  to  us  the  meaning 
of  another — what  does  sound  tell  us  of  form,  or  even 
touch  of  smell?  It  is  plain  that  the  cerebrum  is  the 
organ  of  innumerable  functions  and  activities.  And 
the  life  of  every  part  depends  on — what?  On  the 
food  supply?  Not  primarily  on  that,  though  that  is 
a  necessity.  Each  part  lives  because  it  is  stimulated 
through  vibrations  arriving  from  without.  It  is  the 
nervous  current  which  is  the  mother  of  energy.  Never 
till  we  realize  this  can  we  understand  either  the  na- 
ture of  our  power,  or  the  process  of  its  generation. 
We  are  bathed,  day  and  night,  in  a  sea  of  vibrations, 
which  become  nervous  when  they  touch  the  surface 
of  the  body,  and  which  are  transformed  into  new 
movements  and  activities  when  they  reach  the  grey 
matter  of  the  cortex.  Pass  a  brilliant  colour  before 
the   eyes,   and   the  nervous  energy  will  be  increased. 


FATIGUE:  NORMAL  AND  ABNORMAL.         159 

Grip  a  dynamometer  while  listening  to  martial  strains 
from  a  band,  and  it  will  be  seen  that  the  energy 
rises  and  falls  with  the  music.  In  dull  surroundings 
the  spirits  fall,  the  energy  appears  to  be  very  small, 
for  large  tracts  of  the  brain  are  left  unstimulated  or 
but  feebly  stimulated.  Thus  the  child  who  had  been 
busy  with  what  is  called  "brain  work,"  but  what,  in 
reality,  absorbed  only  a  very  small  area  of  the  brain, 
and  the  mill-hand  who  had  been  absorbed  in  a  mono- 
tonous task  for  days  and  weeks,  were  both  weary. 
Yet  both  were  ready  for  new  experiences,  eager  for 
new  activities!  Such  weariness  as  theirs  is  abnormal. 
It  is  induced,  not  by  activity,  but  by  torpor — the 
inaction  of  large  areas  of  the  brain. 

So  much  for  one  kind  of  fatigue — a  kind  of  fatigue 
common  enough  among  school  children.  It  arises 
from  a  dearth  of  impressions.  But  there  is  another 
order  of  fatigue  which  takes  its  rise,  not  in  a  dearth, 
but  in  a  plethora  of  impressions  and  sensations. 
Thousands  know  this  order  of  fatigue  very  well,  and, 
indeed,  pass  their  lives  in  inducing  it.  The  luxurious 
boudoir,  concert-room,  and  banqueting-hall — what  are 
they  but  places  for  the  combination  of  all  the  means 
of  pleasurable  sensations?  Hither  fly  the  pleasure- 
seekers,  always  seeking  for  that  of  which  they  have 
had    already    more    than    enough.     For    one   can   no 


160  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

more  go  on  receiving  impressions  indefinitely  than 
one  can  go  on  eating  with  no  interval  for  digestion. 
What  happens  when  one  receives  food?  The  first 
effects  are  all  profitable  and  pleasurable.  The  digest- 
ive organs  begin  to  act,  the  circulation  is  quickened, 
the  vitality  is  raised.  But,  by-and-bye,  when  the  eater 
has  had  enough,  the  taking  of  food  is  no  longer 
healthful,  but  injurious.  The  digestive  organs  then 
become  loaded,  the  heart 's  action  is  impeded,  the 
blood-vessels  distended.  If  the  eater  stopped  eating 
in  time,  the  food  supply  would  have  generated  new 
energy,  the  energy  might  have  been  used  in  work, 
and  a  new  pleasure  higher  than  that  of  the  glutton 
or  gourmand  would  have  then  been  enjoyed.  Well, 
impressions  are  a  kind  of  food.  One  can  have  too 
much  of  them.  Monotony  induces  fatigue ;  but  excess 
also  induces  fatigue.  Everyone  has  heard  of  the  poor 
Esquimaux  who,  being  taken  out  to  see  the  sights  of 
London,  returned  sorrowful,  weary,  almost  overwhelm- 
ed, and,  when  questioned,  only  shook  his  head,  and 
answered :  "  Too  much  streets,  too  much  houses,  too 
much  men,  too  much  everything."  An  even  more 
notable  case  of  surfeit  in  the  matter  of  impressions 
was  that  of  a  young  man  who,  having  been  brought 
up  in  solitude,  was  suddenly  introduced  one  day  to 
the   life  and  movement  of  a  great  city.     The  sudden 


FATIGUE:  NORMAL  AND  ABNORMAL.         161 

experience  of  so  many  new  sensations  and  impressions 
almost  paralyzed  him.  He  walked  about  in  a  dazed 
way,  looked  vaguely  at  the  people  around  him,  and 
presently  fell  fast  asleep.  After  a  time,  doubtless  he 
grew  accustomed  to  his  new  environment,  worked, 
made  friends,  and  came  into  possession  of  a  larger 
consciousness.  But  this  was  possible  only  because 
he  learned  to  assimilate,  and  also  to  reject  much  of 
that  which,  in  the  first  moment,  had  overpowered  him. 

The  pleasure-seeker  is  gorged  with  impressions  and 
sensations  which  he  does  not  translate  into  actions. 
He  interrupts  the  chain  of  life's  activities  because  one 
link  is  so  bright.  It  is  not  the  inferior  person,  or 
even  the  average  person  alone  who  loves  pleasure. 
Everyone  loves  pleasure,  but  the  greatest  of  all  loves 
it  most  of  all. 

A  great  part  of  our  lives  is  spent  in  seeking  it ;  and 
indeed  we  do  well  to  seek  it,  for  without  pleasure 
human  life  would  cease  to  be  human.  The  average 
man  is  a  pleasure-seeker — more  especially  the  average 
man  in  cities.  For  in  cities,  where  one  does  not  see 
the  panorama  of  the  clouds  or  the  changes  of  the  hills 
and  plains,  one  has  to  seek  pleasure  in  order  to  find 
it,  and  the  love  of  pleasure  is  thus  increased,  more 
especially  among  idle  or  semi-idle  people.  So  our 
concert    rooms,    dining    halls,   theatres    are    so    many 


162  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

feasts  spread  for  the  senses.  We  enter  there  to  feel 
vibrations  which  we  cannot  enjoy  elsewhere.  But 
though  the  average  man  has  to  seek  pleasure  diligently, 
the  great  man  need  not  take  quite  so  much  trouble. 
He  has  only  to  cease  working  in  order  to  enjoy  all  the 
delight  furnished  by  a  rich  conscious  and  sub-conscious, 
life.  That  this  in  itself  is  a  great  temptation  many  have 
frankly  admitted.  Nearly  all  great  men  have  worked 
hard.  And  nearly  all  have  loved  idleness.  Alfieri  had 
himself  bound  to  his  table  —because,  free,  he  could  not 
endure  to  take  the  trouble  of  writing  for  a  long  time. 
Balzac  lived  like  a  Trappist — worked  all  night,  ordered 
all  his  life  so  as  to  be  able  to  get  work  out  of  himself  I 
Yet  never,  perhaps,  did  a  man  exist  who  could  better 
have  enjoyed  idleness.  Goethe  was  a  great  worker — 
but  he  was  more.  Around  us  all  plays  a  great  invis- 
ible ocean,  touching  us,  wrapping  us  round.  We  receive 
vibrations  continually,  which  we  may  merely  feel  or 
which  we  may  transform  and  restore.  What  an  inef- 
fable and  illimitable  Ocean  was  Life  for  Goethe.  Yet 
he,  like  others,  had  to  sail  on  that  great  sea,  or  be 
drifted  away,  and  lost  at  last  in  deeper  gulfs  than  other 
men.  From  the  sparkling  waters  he  saw  the  "  Weib  " 
rise  who  was  Pleasure.  She  beckoned  the  Fisher.  She 
sang  to  him.  She  talked  to  him,  she  drew  him  under 
and  he  was  seen  no  more.     Was  not  Goethe  thinking 


FATIGUE:  NORMAL  AND  ABNORMAL.         163 

of  himself  when  he  wrote  of  the  Fisher  at  rest  beneath 
the  smiling  water?  It  is  quite  evident  that  he  under- 
stood that  there  can  be  no  pause  in  Life. 


Kannst  du  mich  mit  Geniiss  betriigen 
Das  sei  flir  mich  der  letzte  Tag! . . . 
Dann  mag  die  Todtenglocke  schlagen 
Dann  bist  du  deines  Dienstes  frei 
Die  Uhr  mag  stehn,  der  Zeiger  fallen 
Es  sei  die  Zeit  fiir  mich  Vorbei. 


Thus  while  many  people  are  afraid  to  go  on 
working,  a  considerable  number  are  afraid  to  stop ! 
On  the  one  hand,  we  have  all  the  victims  of  over- 
pressure— a  great  multitude !  On  the  other,  strenuous 
labourers — who  work  for  life.  Alas  1  For  those  who 
do  not  work  for  Life,  but  apparently  for  Death! 
Youthful  students  who  suffer  from  headache,  nervous- 
ness etc.,  and  whose  parents  resign  themselves,  and 
begin  to  regard  anaemia  as  a  necessary  evil  connected 
with  youth,  just  as  they  once  regarded  measles  and 
scarlet  fever  as  necessary  evils  connected  with  child- 
hood. The  victims  too  are  resigned.  And  yet  now 
and  then  a  cry  of  revolt  breaks  from  one  of  them. 
In  the  pages  of  "The  Journal  of  Mental  Science"  there 
appeared,  a  few  years  ago,  a  parody  of  Thomas 
Hood's  "Song  of  the  Shirt  1" 


164  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

"O  men  with  sisters  dear, 
O  men  with  mothers  and  wives, 
It  is  not  school-books  you're  wearing  out, 
But  school-girls'  brains  and  lives. 
Lesson  on  lesson  and  lesson 
Till  they  make  the  scholar  a  fool, 
Treading  at  once,  with  a  double  step, 
The  path  of  the  grave  and  the  school." 

Sometimes  a  mother  takes  her  daughter  away  from 
school,  or  a  father  locks  up  all  the  books,  and  orders  his 
pale-faced  children  to  play  all  day.  So  a  certain 
number  of  the  victims  of  over-pressure  find  relief. 

And  yet  a  certain  number  of  persons  do  an  enorm- 
ous amount  of  mental  work — and  dare  not  stop ! 
Others  suffer  very  readily  from  over-pressure.  They 
suffer  very  readily  from  a  kind  of  cerebral  conges- 
tion. They  must  work  with  the  same  regularity  with 
which  others  must  eat  or  sleep.  The  brain  becomes 
congested  (to  use  De  Fleury's  expression)  at  the 
same  hour  daily.  It  anything  happens  to  prevent 
them  from  sitting  down  to  their  task  they  are  dis- 
tressed and  miserable  for  the  rest  of  the  day.  But 
if  they  may  go  on  with  their  work  all  is  well.  No 
fear  of  over-pressure  for  them.  Victor  Hugo  took 
one  holiday  of  a  month  in  a  long  life-time.  What 
would  have  happened  if  he  had  been  compelled  to 
rest?  The  most  crushing  grief  could  not  absorb 
him.     Risks   and   cares,   and   even  sickness  could  not 


FATIGUE:  NORMAL  AND  ABNORMAL.         165 

drain   the   sources   of  his   energy.     Not  that   he  was 
much  of  an  invalid. 

Philosophers  and  thinkers  are  a  long-lived  race. 
We  have  only  to  recall  the  names  of  the  most  eminent 
thinkers  of  our  own  day  and  of  past  generations  to 
be  struck  with  the  fact  that  they  lived  to  be  old. 
They  were  nearly  all  venerable  as  well  as  illustrious. 
Other  men  lived  only  while  they  were  young.  The 
fires  of  youth  and  maturity  having  died  out  in  their 
hearts,  existence  became  empty  and  colourless.  But 
in  the  philosophers,  the  thinkers,  the  light  and  heat  of 
youth  were  transformed  into  something  yet  more 
powerful  and  more  resplendent.  They  went  on  from 
strength  to  strength  and  often  produced  their  master- 
pieces in  old  age. 

It  is  true  that  an  old  proverb  runs,  "  Whom  the 
gods  love  die  young."  But  the  beloved  of  the  gods 
was  usually  a  sublime  poet  or  warrior—  not  a  thinker. 

"Yet  even  all  thinkers  are  not  venerable — do  not 
flourish  in  a  green,  fruitful  old  age,"  you  say.  No.  One 
remembers  poor  Heine — stretched  on  his  mattress  grave, 
and  "increasing  daily  his  knowledge  of  spinal  disease." 
But  could  that  small,  shrunken  body,  twisted  with 
pain,  have  lived  so  long  if  behind  the  paralysed  eye- 
lids there  was  an  inactive  brain?  It  is  probable  that 
a   more   sluggish   man   in  a  like  case  could  not  have 


i66  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

lived  at  all.  The  wild,  delicate  wit,  effervescing  like 
wine  even  at  the  last  moment;  the  tact,  and  energy, 
and  genius  of  the  modern  Hebrew  poet — these  were 
all  that  was  left,  but  they  resisted  long  and  vanished 
at  last  unconquered.  Oh  no !  An  active  brain  does 
not  kill.  But  it  keeps  alive.  The  victims  of  over- 
pressure suffer  from  "a  vague  disease"  whose  name 
they  do  not  know,  and  whose  origin  they  have  not 
traced. 

"Life,"  said  Biehat,  "is  an  ensemble  of  functions 
which  resist  death."  (It  is  difficult  to  find  an  English 
word  for  "ensemble."  Collection  will  not  do,  for 
"collection"  does  not  suggest  the  living  relation  which 
exists  between  the  members  of  one  organism.)  Where 
the  functions  are  numerous  and  great  the  struggle  for 
life  will  be  intense  and  prolonged.  The  idiot  is  short- 
lived. The  dullard  sinks  without  great  resistance  into 
endless  sleep.  But  the  great  thinker  makes  a  brave 
fight.  Disputes  every  inch  of  the  ground  and  tastes 
tranquillity  even  in  battle,  the  tranquillity  that  results, 
not  from  inertia,  but  from  "  mighty  and  equal  antag- 
onisms:" great  activities,  great  repose. 

Waking  life  itself  is  a  thing  to  which  we  are  initi- 
ated gradually.  The  infant  sleeps  a  great  deal.  Passive 
as   is   his   waking   life,  he  cannot  support  it  for  more 


FATIGUE:  NORMAL  AND  ABNORMAL.         167 

than  an  hour  or  two  at  a  time.  But  as  he  grows 
older  this  waking  life  is  stimulated  by  a  rain  of  impres- 
sions. The  brain  grows  rapidly.  Waking  life,  once  a 
vague  dream  in  a  deep  sleep,  begins  to  emerge  from 
that  sleep,  to  rend  it  aside  like  a  dark  curtain.  For 
long  and  longer  periods  it  holds  sleep  aloof:  so  that, 
whereas  at  the  age  of  one  month  the  child  spent 
nearly  all  his  time  in  sleep,  at  the  age  of  5  or  6 
years  he  spend  half  his  time  in  a  state  of  activity 
and  consciousness. 

Of  course  "waking"  is,  after  all,  only  a  relative 
term.  A  great  part  of  the  waking  life  of  the  majority 
of  persons  is  spent  in  a  state  of  semi-activity,  in  so 
far  as  many  of  the  higher  functions  are  concerned. 
Even  gifted  persons  pass  a  great  deal  of  their  time  in 
what  is  called  "day-dreaming."  But  certainly  the 
"practical  person,"  following  some  occupation  which 
has  become  familiar  to  him  and  which  he  performs 
automatically  has  as  little  right  as  the  dreamer  to  claim 
that  he  is  fully  awake.  The  usual  condition  of  the 
average  adult  is  one  of  semi-repose,  just  as  the  chronic 
state  of  an  infant  may  be  said  to  be  sleep. 

The  amount  of  sleep  necessary  for  any  creature  is 
in  inverse  ratio  to  the  strength  of  consciousness. 
"Behold,"  says  the  Eastern  poet,  in  an  amazing  song, 
"Behold,  He  that  keepeth  Israel  shall  neither  slumber 


168  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

nor  sleep."  Did  Simeon  Stylites  stand  for  years  on 
a  pillar?  Could  Saint  Francis  work  and  fast  for  days. 
To  us — victims  of  over-pressure ! — it  seems,  impossible. 
Yet  the  great  men  of  our  own  century  have  been 
light  sleepers.  They  could  take  repose  when  they  liked, 
and  a  little  sleep  restored  them.  Napoleon  rarely  slept 
for  more  than  four  hours  in  the  twenty-four.  "  Seven 
hours  of  sleep,"  we  say,  "are  enough  for  a  woman — 
six  for  a  man."  We  grow  weary,  not  because  we 
work  hard,  but  because  we  cannot  continue  to  work 
hard  enough. 

This  fact  becomes  evident  as  we  study  the  causes 
of  fatigue.  Why  do  people  grow  tired  ?  Every  schoolboy 
now  learns  that  the  feeling  of  fatigue  is  caused  by 
the  presence  of  poisonous  substances  in  the  blood. 
These  poisons  are  generated  by  the  active  muscles 
and  nerves,  which,  in  the  course  of  their  activities, 
transform  the  foodstuffs  into  new  and  poisonous  com- 
pounds, and  fling  them  back  as  refuse  into  the  blood 
stream.  Now,  within  the  body  are  living  scavengers 
that  free  the  blood  of  its  poison  by  transforming  it 
into  new  substances.  If  these  function  rapidly  enough 
fatigue  is  prevented.  If  they  cannot  work  hard  and  fast 
enough  the  condition  known  as  "fatigue"  is  induced. 

It  is  the  poisonous  substance  which  induces  fatigue 
The  question  is  simply — How  to  remove  it?     Teachers 


FATIGUE:  NORMAL  AND  ABNORMAL.         169 

and  lecturers  have  simple  ways  of  illustrating  this. 
For  example,  they  take  a  tortoise  heart  (which  is 
alive,  though  the  tortoise  it  once  belonged  to  is  dead) 
and  fix  a  light  lever  to  it  by  a  thread  in  such  a 
way  that  at  each  beat  it  pulls  the  lever  up.  The 
tortoise  heart  moves  or  works:  it  lives  and  works  on 
the  supply  of  food  which  it  once  had  from  the  blood. 
But  presently  it  is  poisoned  by  the  substance  it  gen- 
erates in  working.  Is  its  strength  gone  beyond  recall? 
No.  The  lecturer  washes  away  the  poisonous  stuff, 
gives  the  heart  food  in  the  shape  of  salt  and  water, 
and  it  beats  on  again  as  vigorously  as  ever.  Such 
experiments  prove  that  the  blood  is  not  (as  was 
once  supposed)  the  life.  That  movement  is  life.  It  is 
the  carrying,  combining,  dissolving,  removing  of  myriad 
atoms  and  molecules  that  is  involved  in  the  toil  of 
the  poor  drudge  or  the  thought  ot  the  great  seer. 

Within  the  brain  the  greatest  movement  takes 
place.  Yet  the  brain  is  not  alone  concerned  in  intel- 
lectual labour.  Physiologically  the  most  striking  fact 
in  connexion  with  thought  and  emotion  is  their  effect 
on  the  circulation.  The  most  casual  thought,  the 
vaguest  emotion  sends  a  red  tide  flowing  to  the  brain. 
How  much  greater  is  the  tidal  flow  of  blood  to  the 
same  organ  when  we  engage  in  serious  mental  labour. 
The   effort  we   make   in   studying  is  an  effort  of  the 


i7o  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

whole  organism.  The  muscles  are  involved ;  but,  above 
all,  we  have  to  acknowledge  the  activity  of  the  blood 
setting  in  a  swift  river  towards  the  cerebral  centres, 
where  the  great  movements  are  taking  place  to  which 
we  give  the  name  of  thought.  Is  this  river  pure  ?  Does 
it  carry  away  swiftly  all  the  perilous  stuff  which  the 
active  nerve  cells  are  continually  throwing  off,  or  does 
it  bring  poisonous  substances  on  its  own  quick  tide? 
If  all  the  activities  are  equal  and  balance,  the  body 
is  pure — there  is  no  weariness.  But  the  movements 
are  not  long  balanced.  The  brain — the  Royal  Organ — 
makes  demands  which  cannot  long  be  met.  Therefore 
though  other  organs  never  rest — for  the  heart  beats 
and  the  lungs  etc.  function,  without  pause,  during  70 
and  80  years — the  brain  sleeps.  Not  wholly  indeed 
—  yet  it  sleeps,  becomes  pale,  shrunken,  ansemic 
every  night — swelling  and  flushing  it  is  true  in  the 
vague,  eddying  life  of  visions  and  dreams.  Sometimes 
the  higher  faculties  appear  to  be  exercised,  as  when 
the  sleeper  composes  a  poem  or  solves  a  problem.  But 
as  sleep  deepens,  such  activity  ceases :  what  appeared 
to  be  Will,  Memory,  Attention  fail:  all  consciousness 
dies  away  like  a  light  on  a  deserted  shore  .... 
During  the  first  years  of  life  the  brain  grows  rapidly. 
A  growing  organ  has  little  power  of  resistance.  The 
infant   human  brain   has   in    particular    little   resisting 


FATIGUE:  NORMAL  AND  ABNORMAL.         171 

power.  For  it  is  dependent  on  other  members  which 
it  is  apt  to  outrun. 

So  the  infant  cannot  keep  awake  long.  He  sleeps 
during   twenty  or  twenty-two  hours  in  the  twenty-four. 

How  long  should  a  child  sleep  ?  It  is  not  possible 
to  lay  down  hard  and  fast  rules.  But,  roughly  speaking, 
children  between  the  ages  of  one  and  two  years  need 
from  18  to  16  hours  of  sleep  out  of  the  24:  between 
two  and  three  years,  16  to  15:  between  three  and 
four,  15  to  14:  between  four  and  six  years,  15  to  12; 
between  six  and  nine  years,  12  to  10:  and  between 
10  to   13,  from  ten  to  nine  hours. 

Let  it  be  repeated  (for  it  may  well  be  the  refrain 
of  any  article  on  weariness) — fatigue  is  the  result  of 
impurity,  and  impurity  the  result  of  sluggishness,  or 
inability  of  the  cleansing  agents  in  the  body  to 
remove  at  a  sufficiently  rapid  rate  the  waste  products. 
So  it  is  of  no  use  to  send  a  child  to  bed  in  a  room 
where  air  is  foul.  The  cleansing  processes  of  sleep 
cannot  be  carried  on  in  such  an  environment !  * 

Sometimes  a  teacher,  looking  round  on  her  class  of 
weary-eyed  children,  closes  the  book  and  sends  them 
out  to   play.     Or    she    may   open  the  windows  wide, 

*  A  great  many  of  the  poorer  children  in  every  city  come  to  school 
in  the  morning  looking  weary,  and  heavy-eyed.  These  have  probably 
been  sleeping  in  impure  air — wasting  their  time  all  night ! 


172  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

and  give  them  a  short  breathing  drill — and  lol  all 
symptoms  of  fatigue  have  vanished.  Eyes  are  bright 
again.  The  friend  in  the  pure  air  has  attacked  the 
enemy  in  the  tissues  and  overcome  him.  The  lesson 
may  go  on  apace. 

It  is  not  through  inertia,  nor  stagnation  that  even  a 
little    child   can   find    rest.     Half  and  more  than  half 
the  task  of  the  true  teacher  is  to  quicken  the  child's 
power  of  response.     The  defective  child  is  usually  the 
child  of  slow  re-action ;  the  bright  child  is  the  child  of 
swift  response.     It   is   in   the   training   of  the  senses, 
and  in  increasing  through  such  training  the   speed  of 
re-action   to  external  stimuli  that  the  modern  teacher 
has   won   all  his  greatest  triumphs.     In  a  few  school- 
rooms the  teacher  actually  keeps  an  instrument  where- 
with to  measure  the  speed  of  the  nerve-current— and  the 
progress  of  his  pupils  I     For  the  scientist  loves  to  mea- 
sure.    Long  ago  people  were  not  nearly  so  deliberate, 
and   yet   they   appear  to   have   been  well  aware  that 
feeling  and  movement  are  a  kind  of  journey.    They  felt, 
too,  that  the  ingoing  and  outgoing  message  was  hindered 
— that  the  roads  were  blocked.    "  How  am  I  straighten- 
ed!" cried  the  man  of  Action,  seeking  outlet  or  expres- 
sion.    "Ye  gates  be  lifted  up,"  cried  the  Poet,  seeking 
the  tide  of  in-coming  life.     "  And  be  ye  lifted  up  ye 
everlasting  doors,  that  the  King  of  glory  may  come  in." 


FATIGUE:  NORMAL  AND  ABNORMAL.         173 

And  what,  after  all,  is  the  use  of  a  lesson  that  is 
not  a  deliverance? — All  the  best  efforts  of  the  intel- 
ligent primary  teacher  are  directed  with  a  view  to  the 
development  of  the  powers  of  reception  or  response. 
The  object  lesson  is  designed  for  this.  The  Drawing 
lesson — the  Music  lesson — even  the  Reading  or  Writ- 
ing lesson,  properly  understood,  are  ways  by  which 
one  begins  to  receive  and  restore  more  freely.  If  we 
want  to  look  to-day  for  the  children  and  students  who 
do  not  suffer  from  over-pressure  we  have  to  go  to 
the  schools  where  children  and  students  are  very 
active — where  the  teachers  do  not  trust  to  books, 
but  encourage  their  pupils  to  make  expeditions,  to 
observe,  to  experiment,  to  use  their  hands  and  eyes 
freely — in  short  where  the  pupils  receive  impressions, 
and  act  on  them  continually. 

After  all,  little  children  are  human.  What  is  good 
and  necessary  for  the  health  of  a  Shakespeare  or  a 
Newton  is  good  also  for  them.  Mental  work  is  one 
condition  of  health  for  every  creature  possessed  of  a 
brain.  And  in  spite  of  all  complaints  about  over- 
pressure, it  is  certain  that  even  children  can  do  a 
great  deal  of  it  without  being  any  the  worse,  but 
rather  the  better.  In  this,  as  in  other  matters,  demand 
ensures  supply. 

"  But  if  exercise  is  so  necessary,  surely  our  children 


174  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

should  be  strong,"  cries  a  mother,  holding  out  despair- 
ingly a  sheaf  of  examination  papers.  "See!  My 
daughters  are  busy  from  dawn  till  night — and  in  their 
sleep  they  talk  of  dates  and  tributaries  and  problems  — 
and  the  little  ones,  too,  have  little  enough  restl" 

Yes,  but  it  is  possible  that  the  daughters  and  the 
little  ones  are  not  very  busy  after  all  1  Indeed  one 
has  only  to  look  at  the  examination  papers  of  older 
pupils  to  see  that  the  students  must  be  unoccupied. 
Wonderfully  unoccupied.  O  the  dates,  and  the  sums, 
and  the  problems,  and  the  grammar  1  They  have  to 
learn  so  much.  They  can  do  nothing  but  learn  mechan- 
ically :  learn  by  heart.  And  that  is  not  much.  That 
is,  after  all,  so  little !  The  human  mind  is  an  ensemble 
of  faculties.  There  is  the  Imagination,  the  Judgment, 
the  Will  etc.  etc.  While  all  these  are  exercised  fatigue 
is  kept  at  bay :  in  the  general  movement  conscious- 
ness is  enlarged,  and  the  close  ramparts  of  sleep  and 
death  are  pressed  back.  But  in  the  work  done  for  the 
modern  examinations  much  of  this  activity  is  prevented. 
The  higher  faculties  lie  dormant  while  the  student 
crams.  He  never  feels  the  excitation  that  accompanies 
the  exercise  of  all  the  faculties,  never  feels  his  pulse 
beat  high,  nor  his  heart  throb,  nor  his  spirits  rise  in  any 
effort.  And  this  is  partly,  if  not  altogether,  why  he 
becomes  the  victim  of  over-pressure. 


FATIGUE:  NORMAL  AND  ABNORMAL.         175 

Forty  years  ago  people  were  much  struck  by 
Frond's  new  teaching.  "  The  normal  child  is  active,  not 
inactive :  direct  his  activities."  To-day  the  psychologist 
says  to  us,  "The  normal  child  is  attentive,  not  in- 
attentive"— only  you  must  find  out  what  he  can  attend 
to.  And  when  you  have  discovered  that,  you  will 
discover  that  he  is  strangely  insusceptible  to  fatigue. 
If  the  thing  he  attends  to  is  a  useful  thing,  then  his 
future  as  well  as  his  present  life  is  blessed.  He  may 
resume  his  work — the  same  work — every  day  for 
months,  for  years.  In  that  case  he  may  be  a  man  of 
genius.  But  it  is  much  more  likely  that  he  will  change 
his  pursuits — be  fickle,  show  the  normal  boy's  will — 
devoting  himself  first  to  one  pursuit  and  then  to  another. 
But  in  either  case  he  will  not  suffer  from  over-pressure. 

The  solicitous  mother  is  not  the  only  person  in  the 
world  who  is  afraid  of  over-activity — quite  unne- 
cessarily. "When  I  am  rich  I  will  do  nothing  but 
enjoy  myself,"  thinks  the  young  man  toiling  and  starv- 
ing in  his  garret  under  the  leads.  He  has  a  hard 
struggle — borrows  money,  toils,  dreams,  and  sleeps 
very  well  at  night.  Later,  when  he  has  succeeded,  he 
is  not  nearly  so  cheerful.  He  is  conscious  of  an  awful 
cessation — a  hideous  pause  in  his  life.  He  has  no  care 
for  the  morrow,  but  all  the  joy  has  gone  out  of  to-day. 


176  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

The  Jews  are  a  persecuted  race.  Every  nation 
reviled  them,  hated  them,  burned  them — and  accepted 
their  ideas  and  their  literature  with  joy  and  devotion. 
They  suffered  terrible  privations,  and  nothing  is  so 
remarkable  as  their  success.  And  no  one  takes  their 
joy  from  them,  or  even  envies  it — for  no  one  but 
themselves  can  possess  it.  And  what  is  most  remark- 
able of  all — they  can  rest  anywhere,  (not  in  cold  im- 
mobility, but  in  quiet  breathing  tranquillity)  on  mattress- 
graves,  or  Ghettos,  in  old  clo'shops  or  by  the  side 
of  thrones.  Moreover — and  this  is  a  thing  worth 
noting — the  percentage  of  defective  children  among 
Jews  is  smaller  than  among  Christians. 

So  the  afflicted,  tossed  with  tempest,  are  comforted, 
and  great  is  the  peace  of  their  children.  The  great 
thinker  and  worker  flourishes  like  a  grand,  healthy 
tree  in  the  midst  of  a  sickly  vegetation.  The  alien 
nation  fights,  suffers,  rests,  and  rules — in  peace.  Just 
as  the  light — which  travels  so  fast  escapes  every 
impurity,  so  they,  living  intensely  and  strenuously, 
escape  fatigue  and  disease. 

But  the  valiant  worker,  the  valiant  nation  alike 
suggest  one  question.  "  What  is  over-pressure  ? "  This 
pale  crowd  of  anaemic  students,  those  children  with 
weary  eyes  and  trembling  hands:  why  are  they  as 
they    are?     Is   it  true   that  they   work  too  hard — or 


FATIGUE:  NORMAL  AND  ABNORMAL.         177 

that,  engaged  only  in  formal  and  mechanical  studies, 
they  are  not  working  at  all?  Surely  they  are  not 
all  working  hard  ?  Over-activity  is  not  common — and 
its  results  are  not  very  serious.  But  inertia  within — 
stagnation  without  (even  were  it  the  stagnation  of  air) 
are  another  matter!  No.  The  workman  who  can 
only  watch  a  machine,  the  rich  man  who  need  not 
earn  his  living,  the  woman  who  has  no  caprice  un- 
satisfied, the  child  who  has  no  time  for  play — these  are 
not  hard  workers! — these  are  all  defrauded  of  the 
battle  of  life,  and  of  the  strength  and  repose  that 
comes  only  in  struggle. 

Is  even  sleep  a  cessation  of  activity?  Only  the 
deepest  sleep — and  above  all  the  sleep  of  the  unde- 
veloped brain— is  dreamless.  "Ah!  I  do  not  know 
what  I  should  do,"  cried  a  mill- worker  the  other 
day,  "if  I  never  dreamed.  I  go  to  work,  you  see, 
every  morning  at  six,  and  I  am  at  the  loom  till  dark. 
My  lodgings  are  comfortless  and  always  empty — but 
at  night  I  dream."  Many  years  ago  this  woman  had 
a  vivid  dream  which  still  gives  her  pleasure.  She 
thought  she  was  in  Italy.  The  sun  was  setting  and 
a  bright  glow  irradiated  everything.  In  the  wide 
field  where  she  stood  the  grass-blades  shone,  and  far 
away  the  plain  stretched,  dotted  here  and  there  with 
flowering   shrubs.     Overhead   the  light  rolled  up  in  a 


178  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

gigantic    arch,    westward   the   sky   was   like    a  sea  of 
amethyst.     Often    on   chill    mornings,   when   the   rain 
falls,  and  the  streets  are  dark,  this  mill-worker,  shiver- 
ing   in   her    poor   clothing   as   she   hurries   along   the 
muddy    pavement,    remembers    that    radiant    sky  and 
plain,    and   is   comforted,     She   warms  herself  at  this 
remembrance  as  though  it  were  a  fire.     Something  of 
the    light   of  that  throbbing  dream  atmosphere  enters 
her  heart.     It  was  only  a  dream — but  a  helpful  dream. 
Sleep  is  change.    Those  regions  of  the  brain  which 
have   been   taxed   rest   (or   ought    to    rest   if  sleep  is 
healthy)   at   night.     We   do   not    dream  of  the  friend 
we   have   lost,    or   if  we    dream  we  forget  that  he  is 
dead.     We    do    not    consciously   attend   to   anything, 
and   we  feel  little  surprise  at  events  which  in  a  wak- 
ing  state   would   seem  impossible.     The  field  of  con- 
sciousness is  invaded  by  a  flood  of  images  and  asso- 
ciations— neglected   regions    of  the  brain  wake  into  a 
kind   of  activity.     Thus   the   poor,   the   enslaved,  the 
over-pressed,    the    sorrowing    find   liberty,    not  in  the 
cessation   of  all    life,    but   in  the  new  life  and  move- 
ment of  sleep. 

"But  as  sleep  deepens  consciousness  fades." 
It  is  true.    But  even  then  sleep  is  not  mere  lethargy. 
Far  otherwise.     Just  as,   in  the  tropical  forest,  a  new 
life   wakens   when  the  birds  and  beasts  that  love  the 


FATIGUE:  NORMAL  AND  ABNORMAL.         179 

sunshine  go  to  sleep,  so  a  new  life  wakens  every 
night  in  the  tired  body.  The  day's  life  is  over. 
The  body,  polluted  by  the  waste  accumulated  in  the 
strife  of  conscious  life,  lies  motionless. 

Consciousness  is   banished  through  the  intoxicating 
effects  of  the  fatigue  poison.     Eyes  are  closed. 

And  nozv  the  ministers  of  purity  awake !  Now  the 
poisonous  substance  is  dissolved  and  washed  from  the 
hidden  parts.  The  cells  are  built  anew.  Sore  Nature 
receives  her  wonderful  bath.  Swiftly  that  inward 
cleansing  goes  forward.  Yet  Nature  will  not  be 
interrupted.  If  a  man  sleeps  eight  hours,  and  is 
roused  every  hour,  he  will  be  unrefreshed  in  the 
morning.  His  rest  has  been  a  series  of  beginnings — 
no  more ;  sleep  is  a  time  of  great  activity  that  does 
not  brook  interruptions.  It  is  an  inner  realm  of  the 
world  of  movement  which  we  call  Life.  We  are 
insensible  to  so  many  movements.  They  are  too 
rapid,  too  well  balanced  and  harmonious  to  awaken 
our  dull  senses.  Only  the  result  of  them  is  a  gift 
every  morning — and  safety  every  hour.  Where  sleep 
is  sufficiently  long,  and  unhindered  by  impurity  of 
environment,  the  sleeper  rises  to  his  labours  a  renewed 
man.  The  temptations  and  troubles  of  yesterday  have 
disappeared.  Above  them  rolls  the  tidal  flow  of  his 
energy.     The   inward   bath   has  made  all  things  new. 


180  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

The  little  child  too,  wakes  from  such  sleep,  with 
all  his  faculties  alert.  There  is,  indeed,  no  transition 
in  his  waking.  He  opens  his  eyes,  and  springs  at 
one  bound  from  the  world  of  dreams.  And  nothing 
is  so  fresh  as  this  young  life  which  has  breathed  pure 
air  all  night  in  the  shadow  of  the  purifying  angels  of 
sleep.  He  has  the  freshness  of  flowers  washed  in 
sunlight  and  also  in  dewy  darkness.  Looking  at  him, 
we  gain  some  hint  of  the  activity  and  even  strenuous- 
ness  that  underlie  all  renewal  and  retrieval.  "The 
peace  that  passeth  understanding"  is  not  the  product  of 
inertia — but  of  motions  "unwearied  as  the  heavens." 
Even  the  gaiety  of  the  newly  awakened  child  has 
behind  it  a  succession  of  activities — the  throb  of  un- 
pausing  life.     "So  He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep." 


CHAPTER    XL 

FORECAST  AND  RETROSPECT. 

It  has  become  almost  a  fashion  to  decry  civilization. 
The  savage — woad-stained  or  tattooed,  unencumbered, 
free,  roaming  about  his  native  forests,  killing,  eating, 
and  unconscious  of  sin — takes  a  powerful  hold  on  the 
imagination.  We  picture  him  strong  and  free,  and  we 
are  disposed  to  envy  him. 

And  yet  nothing  is  more  deceptive  than  that  simple, 
obvious  strength  of  the  savage,  except,  perhaps,  the 
obvious  pallor  and  frailness  of  the  modern  City  clerk. 
Let  pallid  clerk  and  splendid  savage  be  exposed  to 
the  influences  of  infectious  disease.  The  microbe  or 
bacillus  will  find  an  easy  prey  in  the  savage,  though 
he  has  led  a  free  life,  and  breathed  pure  air  daily  and 
nightly  in  a  virgin  forest.  Rut  the  pale  modern  is 
not  so  easily  overpowered.  He  will  wrestle  with  the 
new  enemy,  and  perhaps  defy  him  utterly — thanks  to 
the  possession  of  a  rich  vitality  accumulated  by  genera- 
tions of  thinking  ancestors. 

It  is  in  times  of  sudden  disaster— such,  for  example, 


i82  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

as  shipwreck — that  the  superior  strength  and  power 
of  endurance  of  the  civilized  man  or  woman  declares 
itself.  It  is  not  the  delicate,  cultured  lady,  but  the 
simple  coloured  woman,  who  throws  herself  into  the 
sea  in  a  panic.  The  savage  swoons  when  there  is  no 
hope,  and  resigns  hope  quickly ;  the  uncultivated  white 
man  holds  out  for  a  longer  time ;  the  highly-developed 
civilized  man  or  woman  shows  marvellous  tenacity  and 
endurance,  as  is  amply  testified  by  the  annals  of  in- 
numerable shipwrecks. 

It  would  appear,  indeed,  that  courage,  patience, 
muscular  strength,  mental  ability  are  the  results  of 
accumulation.  Just  as  every  sensation  is,  in  the  last 
analysis,  a  certain  order  of  movement,  so  every  faculty 
must  be  regarded  as  a  manifestation  of  force.  Where 
energy  is  not  allowed  to  accumulate,  there  must  be 
sudden  deficits.  "  For  emergencies,  squalls,  etc.,"  writes 
a  great  admirer  of  higher  types  of  savages,  "  they  are 
nowhere."  That  is  to  say,  they  have  nothing.  How 
can  they  have  anything?  The  primitive  will  of  the 
man  who  walks  so  bravely  in  the  swamps  and  jungles 
is  discharged  continually  in  explosive  actions.  The 
emotions  and  feelings  have  free  and  rapid  course. 
He  is,  to  use  the  expression  of  a  French  writer,  a 
bad  accumulator. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  average  civilized  man  is,  as 


FORECAST  AND  RETROSPECT.  183 

compared  with  the  savage,  a  good  accumulator.     And 
the   energy   which   he   accumulates  is  manifested,  not 
in  one  way  only,  but  in  various  ways.     He  is  adaptable 
— can   turn  his  strength  into  one  channel  or  another. 
For  example,  the  well-educated  scion  of  a  noble  house 
goes    out    to    the    colonies,    and    becomes    a    navvy. 
Though  he  has  never  done  any  hard  work  in  his  life, 
he   has   a   greater    force   and  endurance  than  his  less 
fortunate  work-mates.     Is  this  because  of  his  superior 
training?     It  is  more  correct  to  say  that  it  is  because 
he  has  a  reserve  fund  which  they  have  not.     He  has 
a  large  capital  of  force ;  and  this  force  is  transferable. 
It  once  showed  itself  in  his  ability  to  pass  examinations 
and    shoot   birds.     It  manifests  itself  now  as  a  power 
to  do  the  work  and  endure  the  life  of  a  navvy.     To 
take  another  example:  look  at  the  delicate  but  intel- 
ligent nurse  at  the  seat  of  war.     She  performs  heavy 
and    strenuous    labour    from    which    a    less  cultivated 
woman    would    shrink.     But    how    can    she    do    this? 
There    is    only   one   answer   possible.     She  can  do  it 
because    she    is    stronger   than   the   ignorant   woman. 
This    strength    is  often  called  moral,  or  mental.     Yet 
it  is  manifested  now  as  muscular! 

Such  illustrations  as  these,  striking  as  they  are,  may 
not,  however,  be  accepted  as  evidence  of  the  close 
relation,    and   even   identity,  of  muscular  and  what  is 


184  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

known  as  moral  and  mental  energy.  We  are  not 
destitute  of  other  evidence,  however,  than  that  of  com- 
mon observation  and  experience.  Many  scientists  have 
made  experiments  which  have  served  to  show  that  the 
energy  of  momentary  effort  is  in  close  relation  with  the 
exercise  of  intellectual  functions.  Among  these  is  Broca, 
the  brilliant  neurologist,  who  anticipated  and  prepared 
the  way  for  so  many  discoveries  in  modern  psychology. 
Broca  made  a  series  of  experiments  in  order  to  test 
the  muscular  power  of  persons  belonging  to  different 
social  grades.  The  tests  were  applied  to  the  hand. 
Regnier's  dynamometer  was  used.  The  results  were 
very  conclusive.  It  was  found  that  the  grip  of  the 
average  manual  labourer  was  inferior  to  that  of  the 
artist — that  persons  belonging  to  what  are  called  "  the 
liberal  professions"  could  exercise  a  much  greater 
amount  of  force  than  the  class  below  them,  and  that 
the  cultivated  woman  (whose  hand  appeared  in  many 
cases  to  be  enfeebled  through  lack  of  exercise)  had 
more  digital  energy  at  her  disposal  than  the  woman 
of  the  working  class. 

The  tendency  of  the  primitive  man  to  dissipate 
his  energy  rapidly  is  not  easily  overcome.  Intellectual 
development  is  slow.  It  is  hastened  or  postponed  by 
outside  influences  or  agencies;  and  no  one  can  doubt 
that,  at  one  period  of  our  history  at  least,  the  mental 


FORECAST  AND  RETROSPECT.  185 

development  of  England  was  marvellously  hastened 
through  the  agency  and  influence,  not  merely  of  reli- 
gious teaching,  but  of  religious  rites.  The  Church 
supplied  (because  she  possessed)  a  powerful  emotional 
stimulus.  But  this  was  not  enough.  She  had  not 
merely  to  arouse  and  arrest,  she  had  to  arouse  and 
arrest  daily,  the  prodigal,  savage  life  of  her  children. 
She  had  to  sustain  during  a  long  period  that  strange 
life  in  which  so  many  potentialities  lay — where  so 
much  faculty  struggled  which  would  one  day  shine 
resplendent  in  a  Shakespeare,  a  Milton,  a  Cromwell, 
a  Nelson,  or  a  Florence  Nightingale. 

In  short,  the  Church  had  to  educate  her  children 
(not  merely  to  instruct  them).  And  she  began  this 
work  in  the  only  way  in  which  it  can  be  begun — or 
even  continued;  that  is  to  say,  by  powerful  appeals 
to  the  senses.  Through  the  beauty  of  her  places  of 
worship,  through  gorgeous  vestments  and  glittering 
altars,  through  incense  and  the  voices  of  choristers, 
she  assailed  every  worshipper.  No  sense  was  slighted  ; 
each  was  stimulated.  And  in  this  whirlwind  of  appeal, 
besieged  on  every  side  by  quickening  vibration,  the 
people  awoke  to  new  life.  They  came  together  not 
to  judge  of  the  value  of  doctrine  or  dogma,  but  to 
attain  a  fuller  consciousness,  to  accept  new  stimuli,  to 
feel   the  torrents   of  life   pour  inward  freely  to  those 


186  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

nervous  centres  where  mechanical  vibrations  are  trans- 
formed into  impressions,  impressions  into  desire,  desire 
into  aspiration,  aspiration  into  that  renewed  will 
through  which  new  effort  becomes  possible. 

But,  as  it  was  obvious  that  the  vitality  may  be 
enhanced  through  impressions  only  to  express  itself  in 
unprofitable  or  harmful  ways,  the  Church  cast  a 
jealous  and,  indeed,  a  forbidding  eye  on  every  stimu- 
lating influence  without  her  own  walls  and  jurisdiction. 
She,  using  the  stimulus  of  sound,  condemned  profane 
music.  While  multiplying  her  gorgeous  vestments  and 
glittering  adornments,  she  preached  against  the  vanity 
and  pomps  of  the  world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil. 
She  caused  the  tide  of  life  to  swell  in  the  sanctuary ; 
but  she  loved  to  behold  it  ebb  in  other  places  where 
strength  (through  sensation)  would  mean  only  tempta- 
tion. 

Nevertheless,  such  strenuous  appeals  to  every  organ 
of  sense  could  not  fail  to  produce  powerful  effects 
even  on  the  most  sluggish.  For  the  excitation  of  any 
sense  determines  a  new  functional  activity  of  the  whole 
body.  Of  course,  the  effect  of  such  excitation  is  at  first 
most  apparent  in  the  organ  which  is  specially  appealed 
to,  and  this  effect  is  often  remarkable  enough.  For 
example,  here  is  an  hysterical  woman  whose  sight  is 
abnormal.     With   the    left    eye  she  can  see  only  one 


FORECAST  AND  RETROSPECT.  187 

colour — red;  that  is  to  say,  the  colour  which  is  the  most 
stimulating  of  all.  With  the  right  eye  she  can  discern 
every  colour  except  violet— which  is  the  least  stim- 
ulating colour — the  colour  whose  various  shades  are 
discerned  last  of  all.  Now,  this  woman  is  exposed 
during  some  minutes  to  a  red  light;  it  is  then  found 
that  she  can  discern  violet  very  well  with  the  right 
eye,  and  that  the  sensibility  of  the  left  eye  also  is 
much  increased.  To  take  another  example,  here  is  a 
woman  who  is  apparently  quite  deaf.  She  goes  into 
a  mill  where  she  is  exposed  to  the  roar  of  machinery, 
the  clatter  of  innumerable  looms ;  there  it  becomes 
possible  for  her  to  communicate  with  her  neighbour. 
When  the  machinery  stops  she  is  again  stone  deaf. 

New  power  was  acquired  by  those  two  women 
through  stimuli.  And  the  effect  of  the  stimulus  offered 
by  the  red  light  or  the  roaring  machinery  was  by  no 
means  confined  to  one  sense.  Every  muscle,  nerve, 
sense,  and  member  shared  in  the  new  accession  of 
energy.  The  deaf  woman  was  able  to  converse  in 
the  factory,  but  this  was  not  altogether  due  to  the 
fact  that  the  organ  of  hearing  was  stimulated.  Doubtless 
the  sense  of  vision,  too,  was  rendered  more  acute,  so 
that  she  was  able  in  some  measure  to  read  the  move- 
ments of  her  companion's  lips.  And  both  she  and 
the  woman  of  defective  sight  profited  intellectually  by 


188  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

the  stimuli  supplied  to  the  sense  organs,  since  every 
stimulus  which  is  prolonged  (that  is  to  say,  is  more 
than  momentary)  increases  the  psychic  power  in  raising 
the  general  sensibility. 

Now,  if  such  be  the  results  of  a  single  stimulus  on 
a  defective  person,  it  is  reasonable  to  suppose  that  a 
series  of  well-chosen  stimuli  might  greatly  enhance  the 
vitality  and  power  of  normally  endowed  persons.  In 
church  the  people  had  real,  not  fictitious,  glimpses  of 
a  higher  life.  To  be  sure,  such  glimpses  were  brief. 
The  moment  when  human  energy  is  at  its  maximum 
is  the  moment  that  precedes  decline.  But  the  effects 
of  temporary  reinforcement  are  not  always  temporary. 
Even  the  coldest  moralist  will  sometimes  admit  that 
he  gained  the  power  to  work  through  long  years  in 
one  brief,  bright  moment  of  insight.  The  Church 
provided  for  the  life  of  moments,  and  selected  the 
stimuli  by  which  this  life  was  intensified.  And  in 
doing  this  she  provided  conditions  necessary  for  the 
growth  and  blossoming  of  human  faculties. 

And  so  the  period  of  great  art  and  craftsmanship 
followed  close  on  the  period  of  religious  revival.  There 
was  first  of  all  fervour  of  love  and  wonder  and  adoration, 
and  then  the  desire  to  embody  all  this  in  work.  And 
not  only  in  work,  but,  since  the  tide  of  life  swelled 
every  day,  to  embody  it  in  daily  work.     Returned  from 


FORECAST  AND  RETROSPECT.  189 

the  sanctuary,  where  the  vitality  had  been  raised  and 
every  sense  stimulated,  the  artizan  found  a  theatre  where 
the  last  act  of  this  great  life  drama  must  be  played 
out.  The  hand  of  the  wood-carver  was  now  instinct 
with  new  life,  which  seemed  to  flow  into  the  sweet- 
grained  wood  as  he  worked.  The  weaver,  the  mason, 
the  iron-worker,  every  labourer,  whatever  his  calling, 
had  to  embody  what  he  felt  for  the  same  reason  that 
an  over-filled  vessel  must  overflow.  So  close  was  the 
connection  between  reception  and  realization,  so  man- 
ifest was  it  that  both  represented  only  one  movement, 
that  the  old  monks  did  not  even  distinguish  them. 
"Work,"  said  they,  "is  worship." 

Well,  through  this  life  of  alternative  refreshment  and 
work  the  people  were  educated.  Just  as  a  wild  flower 
grows  large  and  brilliant  in  a  garden,  so  the  primitive 
man  became  a  more  luxuriant  and  resplendent  being 
under  the  stimulating  and  nurturing  influences  provided 
by  the  Church.  In  the  rites  of  his  religion,  let  it  be 
said  once  again,  man  was  allowed  to  drink  in  a  new 
energy,  and  was  swept  forward  into  a  new  conscious- 
ness. So  that  at  last  he  grew  strong  enough  to  be 
critical  as  well  as  receptive,  and  keen  enough  to  discern 
impurities  in  the  very  garden  that  had  nourished  him. 
The  warm  myths  that  had  lain  so  close  about  the 
roots  of  his  unripe  nature,  the  starry  legends  that  had 


igo  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

rained  their  pure  influences  on  him  in  his  cradle,  even 
the  sweetness  of  music  and  the  loveliness  of  the  temple 
in  which  he  worshipped,  appeared  to  him  no  longer 
as  helpful  and  holy  things. 

The  senses !  There  was  something  beyond  the  senses. 
Beyond — beyond  there  was  a  wider  region  of  truth. 
He  despised  the  avenues  through  which  he  had  become 
enriched.  In  the  ferment  and  growth  of  nascent  and 
vigorous  life — life  rich  in  possessions,  and  yet  richer 
in  promise — he  looked  no  longer  for  guides,  but  for 
weapons ;  he  sought  no  more  for  religious  teachers, 
but  for  artificial  aids.  He  hailed  with  joy  the  new 
invention  of  printing,  which  would  lighten  the  burdens 
imposed  on  memory  and  keep  the  record  of  thronging 
thoughts.  Not  for  the  privileged  few  alone,  but  for 
all  the  people,  this  new  weapon  was  a  necessity.  The 
Church  claimed  it,  but  her  children  disputed  her  right 
to  it.  What!  She  alone  must  print,  and  say  whether 
books  should  live  or  die  ?  But  the  need  of  expression 
was  theirs.  They  wanted  to  speak  at  last,  to  debate, 
to  record,  to  remember. 

Thus  the  people,  in  the  hey-day  of  national  youth. 
And  they  prevailed.  For  theirs  was  no  longer  the 
explosive  strength  of  the  savage,  but  the  jubilant  valour 
of  youth.  And  the  greatest  man  of  that  great  age  — an 
old,  blind  man— rejoiced  with  them,  and  defended  them. 


FORECAST  AND  RETROSPECT.  191 

"  Methinks  I  see  in  my  mind  a  noble  and  puissant 
nation  rousing  herself  like  a  strong  man  after  sleep 
and  shaking  her  invincible  locks.  Methinks  I  see  her 
as  an  eagle  missing  her  mighty  youth  and  kindling  her 
undazzled  eyes  at  the  full,  mid-day  beam,  purging  and 
unsealing  her  long-abused  sight  at  the  fountain  itself 
of  heavenly  radiance." 

The  present  century  has  been  one  of  extraordinary 
and  rapid  change.  The  most  remarkable  of  all  is,  of 
course,  the  industrial  one  — caused  by  the  introduction 
of  machinery.  Unprecedented  in  the  annals  of  history 
is  this  First  Revolution.  For  hundreds,  indeed  thou- 
sands of  years,  civilized  nations  used  much  the  same 
kind  of  saws,  looms,  planes,  picks,  hammers,  etc.,  and 
now  within  a  few  years  all  was  changed.  The  old 
instruments,  the  old  methods,  disappeared.  Large 
numbers  of  workpeople  of  both  sexes  crowded  into 
the  large  factories.  Home  as  well  as  workshop  was 
transformed. 

But  another  change  has  taken  place—  a  change  that 
affects  a  still  more  dependent  person  than  the  workman 
or  his  wife.  In  1870  the  Education  was  inaugurated 
which  has  revolutionized  the  life  of  the  child. 

The  Second  Revolution  was  doubtless  hastened  by 
the  first.     The   condition  of  the  children  in  the  large 


i92  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

industrial  centres  began  while  the  factory  system  was 
still  very  young  to  inspire  alarm.  The  children  went 
to  work  at  the  age  of  six  or  seven — or  even  earlier. 
They  had  no  home  life  or  education.  And,  as  they 
could  not  read,  ignorance  of  the  alphabet  began  to  be 
associated  with  alarming  degeneracy,  and  obvious 
arrest  of  mental  development.  It  was  thought,  and 
very  rightly,  by  many  that  these  poor  little  children 
were  being  defrauded  of  their  human  birthright — so 
stupefied  were  they,  through  hard  labour  and  neglect. 
Public  opinion  on  this  subject  was  strong  enough  to 
hasten  the  action  of  the  Government  in  attempting  to 
find  a  remedy  for  such  a  condition  of  things.  In 
1870  the  Education  Bill  was  passed.  Schools  were 
built  rapidly;  teachers  engaged.  In  short  the  second 
great  revolutionary  change  of  the  century  was 
inaugurated. 

In  order  to  understand  the  condition  of  many  of 
the  children  that  gathered  into  the  schools  we  must 
first  consider  the  life  of  their  parents.  It  was,  to  begin 
with,  a  life  of  great  monotony.  For  ten  hours  per 
day  the  father  (and  also,  perhaps,  the  mother) 
performed  the  same  restricted  and  mechanical  action. 
The  average  brainworker — that  is  to  say,  the  average 
member  of  the  class  which  decides  the  kind  of 
education    and    legislation    that    is    advisable   for   the 


FORECAST  AND  RETROSPECT.  193 

working  child  and  man — has  often  little  enough  notion 
hotv  mechanical  the  wage-earner's  task  was— and  is! 
Here  is  a  man  who  has  to  perform  one  fractional  part 
of  the  work  of  getting  warp  ready  for  the  loom.  The 
whole  burden  of  his  task  falls  on  the  forefinger  and 
thumb  of  one  hand.  The  action  is  mechanical.  And 
it  is  repeated  during  long  hours  without  halt.  Some- 
times the  worker  turns  his  seat  round  and  uses  the 
other  hand,  and  this  is  the  only  change  possible  for 
him.  Yet,  though  all  the  strain  is  thrown  on  one 
small  member,  and  on  one  isolated  area  of  the  brain, 
the  whole  body  seems  to  participate  in  this  activity. 
The  arm,  even  the  trunk,  trembles  as  the  finger  is 
advanced  again  and  again  with  the  regularity  of  a 
steel  bar  or  piston.  The  room  is,  perhaps,  well-lighted 
and  airy,  people  may  come  and  go,  but  the  toiler 
cannot  raise  his  head,  or  take  any  notice  of  what  is 
passing  around  him.  This  is  a  solitary  case,  yet  it 
is  a  typical  one.  In  the  weaving  and  spinning  shed 
the  workers  seem  to  be  a  part  of  the  machinery.  The 
great  iron  fingers  that  rise  and  fall  in  regular  order, 
the  wooden  arm  at  the  side  of  the  loom,  that  strikes 
with  rhythmic  energy,  even  the  restless  wheels  them- 
selves hardly  work  more  mechanically  and  contin- 
uously than  the  human  eyes  and  hands  that  watch 
and  tend  them.     Of  course,  this  applies  directly  only 

13 


194  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

to  weavers  and  spinners.  But  a  little  consideration 
will  convince  anyone  that  not  only  spinners  and 
weavers,  but  all  classes  of  wage-earners — button- 
makers,  founders,  potters,  carmen — have  to  earn 
their  living  by  performing  one  restricted  action  over 
and  over  again. 

In  former  days,  before  the  machine  or  the  machine- 
minder  had  come  into  existence,  the  life  of  a  man 
was  not  destitute  of  incident.  Yet  the  Church  was 
careful  to  star  it  with  intervals  of  change  and  rest. 
Her  pilgrimages,  her  festivals,  her  holy  days,  were 
blessed  interruptions.  They  were  necessary  interrup- 
tions. But  the  Church  has  not  grappled  very  success- 
fully with  the  problems  of  latter-day  industrial  life. 
The  people  are  left  to  themselves.  They  rebel  against 
the  monotony  of  their  life — and  violently. 

Drink  is  common  among  men  and  women  in  the 
large  industrial  centres.  Betting,  too,  is  common,  not 
merely  among  men  and  women,  but  among  children. 
The  Lancashire  "hands"  consumed  within  recent  years 
an  immense  amount  of  opium.  They  enjoy  even 
wholesome  pleasures  with  abandonment.  In  York- 
shire and  Lancashire  thousands  of  families  work  hard 
all  the  year  with  the  full  intention  of  spending  every 
penny  of  their  hard-won  earnings  during  the  annual 
fortnight's    holiday    at    the    seaside.     From    the    long 


FORECAST  AND  RETROSPECT.  195 

year's  monotonous  labour  there  is  no  escape;  but 
there  is  an  hour  of  life  at  the  end  of  it.  That  must 
be  tasted  at  any  cost. 

"  What  folly !  what  want  of  prudence  and  self- 
control!"  says  the  shallow  moralist.  "Their  great 
great-grandfathers  did  not  thirst  for  change  and  ex- 
citement." No.  Their  great  great-grandfathers  were 
not  machine  minders.  And  the  people  are  right, 
after  all — if  a  reaction  may  be  spoken  of  as  "right" 
or  "wrong."  For  monotony  is  the  arch-enemy  of 
human  life  and  progress.  Wherever  it  reigns  pro- 
gress is  checked,  and  all  recent  and  higher  achieve- 
ments imperilled.  It  is  solitary  confinement  which 
completes  the  degradation  of  the  criminal.  The  In- 
stitution child  does  not  develop.  In  spite  of  good 
food  and  regular  exercise,  he  is  destroyed  by  the 
monotony  of  Institution  life.  The  mill-hand  is  free 
during  a  short  period  every  day,  and  he  is  not  re- 
conciled to  monotony.  He  thirsts  for  excitement, 
and  is  willing  to  pay  almost  any  price  for  it.  But 
in  this  strong  desire  for  change  we  see,  not  the  work- 
ing of  the  old  Adam,  but  the  instinct  of  self-pre- 
servation—an instinct  which  safeguards,  in  some  degree, 
the  most  precious  fruits  of  human  evolution. 

Alas!  these  precious  fruits  are  in  jeopardy  none- 
theless.   The  mill  workers  have  changed  front  rapidly 

i3* 


iq6  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

on   many   questions   during  the   present  century,  and 
some  of  these  changes  are  sadly  suggestive. 

They  revolted  at  first  against  the  very  idea  of  their 
children  going  to  work  in  a  factory.  Then  suddenly 
they  became  resigned,  and,  later  still,  desirous  that 
the  little  ones  should  labour.  They  sent  their  little 
ones  of  six  and  seven  to  work  for  twelve  hours  per 
day.  Parental  love,  which  is,  according  to  Herbert 
Spencer,  the  most  powerful  instinct  of  all,  became 
suddenly  weakened.  What  influence  was  it  that  thus 
quickly  destroyed  in  those  English  people  the  most 
sacred  feelings  of  pity  and  affection?  There  is  little 
doubt  that  the  moral  blight  was  brought  about  through 
monotony — that  monotony  against  which  the  people 
themselves  were  rebelling  in  desperate  enough  fashion. 

The  schools  were  opened  at  last  in  great  haste, 
and — we  may  be  allowed  to  say  it  now — in  great 
ignorance.  They  were  opened,  not  for  the  children 
of  Northern  England  alone,  but  for  English  children. 
But  what  was  true  of  the  factory  child  was  true,  in 
some  measure,  of  the  bulk  of  those  who  now  began 
to  throng  the  benches  of  the  elementary  schools.  For 
not  one  section  alone  of  the  working  people,  but  all, 
had  experienced,  more  or  less,  the  far-reaching  effects 
of  the  industrial  revolution;  all  had  felt  them,  not 
merely  in  the  external  ordering  of  their  lives,    but  in 


FORECAST  AND  RETROSPECT.  197 

a  new  dearth  of  inner  experience,  which  threatened, 
and  indeed  arrested,  all  the  processes  of  natural 
education.  O  restless  wheels  I  what  a  poor  substitute 
were  you  for  the  thrilling  vibrations  which  once 
awakened  the  young,  and  even  stirred  the  old.  O 
books  1 — for  which  the  children  had  no  use — how 
could  you  take  the  place  of  words  from  loved  and 
living  lips?  Not  to  read — that  were  a  small  matter; 
but  to  have  no  life,  no  thoughts — there  was  the 
tragedy.  Where  were  the  warm  bright  myths,  the 
starry  tales,  the  loving  glances,  the  sweet  sounds 
and  gorgeous  spectacles  that  once  roused  even  the 
sluggish?  The  world  was  full  of  machinery  and  free 
thought  (though  in  many  places  there  was  little 
enough  thought  of  any  kind  to  be  enslaved).  And 
the  children  stood  cold  and  torpid,  unthrilled  by  any 
life-giving  vibrations. 

It  is  plain  that  such  children  were  in  need,  not  of 
instruction,  but  of  nourishment.  Granting,  as  we 
must,  that  a  perfect  substitute  for  parental  love  and 
faith  and  intercourse  cannot  be  supplied  in  any 
school,  it  was,  nevertheless,  the  plain  duty  of  those 
responsible  for  primary  education  to  supply,  in  some 
measure,  the  food  on  which  the  human  mind  grows, 
and  the  stimuli  through  which  it  is  awakened. 

"That  is  impossible!"  cries  the  bigot.    "The  emo- 


19S  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

tional  stimulus  of  our  fathers  was  a  religious  one; 
and  we  are  split  into  quarrelling  sects.  The  power 
that  initiates  all  progress  had  departed." 

Happily  the  initiating  power  is  never  banished. 
Or,  in  any  case,  nothing  is  so  remarkable  as  the 
swiftness  of  its  return.  It  re-appears  in  every  unsel- 
fish thought,  in  every  devoted  life.  And  it  scorns 
no  simple  means.  Sects  quarrel,  but  flowers  still 
grow  by  the  wayside,  and  even  in  dingy  windows; 
wild  birds  and  tame  creatures  still  make  their  mute 
appeal.  Pure  and  brilliant  colours,  music  and  sweet 
human  speech,  lovely  forms,  had  not  been  banished 
through  the  triumph  of  one  sect  or  the  failure  of 
another.  And,  moreover,  there  were  still  living  men 
and  women  in  the  world  to  gather  the  food  through 
which  the  children  of  the  people  might  be  nourished. 

Unfortunately,  though  the  condition  and  circum- 
stances of  thousands  of  children  suggested  that  sup- 
plies had  been  cut  short,  so  that  mental  nurture,  once 
general,  was  now  exceptional,  the  schools  did  not 
become  nursing-homes.  People  did  not  even  know 
that  nursing-homes  were  necessary.  It  has  been 
remarked  that  the  children,  condemned  to  work,  and 
deprived  of  all  which  goes  to  make  a  rich  sub-soil 
out  of  which  the  mental  and  moral  life  may  grow, 
were    stunted    and    stupefied.     The   average   observer 


FORECAST  AND  RETROSPECT.      199 

noted  the  stupidity.  He  also  remarked  the  fact  that 
the  stupefied  child  did  not  know  how  to  read.  So 
he,  encouraged  by  some  great  writers,  at  once  de- 
clared that  to  teach  reading  was  the  first  duty  of 
the  State.  Now  it  is  not  very  difficult  to  teach  read- 
ing, nor  even  to  see  that  it  is  done  properly.  And 
John  Smith  wanted  to  see  that  it  was  done  properly, 
because  he  had  to  pay  for  it.  "I  am  to  pay,"  said 
John,  "for  having  the  three  R's  taught,  and  how  am 
I  to  know  if  1  get  value  for  my  money?"  This 
question  appeared  such  a  very  pertinent  one  that 
everybody  began  to  think  about  it  at  once.  And  at 
last  something  which  promised  to  be  a  solution  was 
arrived  at,  for  Mr.  Lowe  brought  forward  his  great 
suggestion  of  payment  by  results.  It  was  a  very 
simple  suggestion  indeed,  and  commended  itself, 
therefore,  to  the  practical  English  mind.  The  teach- 
er was  to  make  it  possible  for  the  children  to  do 
certain  things,  and  his  payment  was  to  be  according 
to  his  success.  The  inspector  was,  of  course,  the 
judge,  or,  rather,  the  valuer.  He  was  to  go  round 
examining  children  in  the  three  R's  (for  these  were 
the  test  subjects)  and  assessing  grants;  and  in  this 
way  John  Smith,  senior,  was  to  have  some  guarantee 
that  he  did  not  spend  his  School  Board  rate  money 
without  getting  an  equivalent. 


200  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

Well,  the  children  began  to  learn,  and  the  teachers 
to  grind.  To  teach  the  three  R's,  that  was  the  ques- 
tion. In  every  school  the  thing  was  done,  in  one 
fashion  or  another.  The  bright  and  dull,  the  whole 
and  the  sickly,  the  elder  and  younger — all  learned  to 
read,  to  write,  to  cipher.  They  learned  other  things, 
too,  mostly  by  heart;  and  on  examination  days,  mar- 
shalled before  the  judge  and  valuer,  they  exploded 
all  they  knew,  like  unbottled  jars  in  the  class-room, 
the  teacher  looking  on  the  while,  and  listening  with 
anxious  heart.  Read?  Certainly  they  could  readl 
Also  write,  spell,  sum,  and  remember.  Many  a 
teacher  pocketed  large  sums,  and  years  passed  before 
John  Smith,  senior,  began  to  have  even  the  dimmest 
suspicion  that  he  was  not,  after  all,  getting  full  value 
for  his  money.  Nevertheless,  this  discouraging  fact 
became  at  last  only  too  apparent.  Many  children 
went  through  the  ordeal  of  learning  to  read,  and  then 
leaving  school,  speedily  forgot  all  about  the  matter  1 
They  had  no  need  for  such  an  artificial  aid.  The 
desire  to  know  or  communicate  with  a  larger  life  had 
never  been  born  in  them  at  all.  And  as  their  learn- 
ing had  no  roots;  it  soon  withered  away.  Doubtless 
such  children  were  exceptionally  dull  and  unfortunate ; 
yet  that  "the  results"  of  school-going  should  be 
these   for   any   child   proves   that   great   ignorance  of 


FORECAST  AND  RETROSPECT.  201 

the   children's   actual   condition  and  needs  must  have 
prevailed. 

Poor  John  Smith!  His  mistake  consisted  in  this, 
that  from  the  first  he  looked  upon  the  children  as 
producers;  and  yet  the  most  striking  fact  about  the 
children  was  that  they  were  bankrupt;  they  were  not 
in  a  position  to  produce  anything  at  all  I 

As  time  went  on  John  Smith,  senior,  began  to  feel 
that  "the  results"  were  not,  after  all,  of  much  value. 
It  was  not  necessary  for  doctors  and  statisticians  to 
warn  him;  he  knew  already,  in  some  more  or  less 
vague  way,  that  "schooling"  was  not  such  a  wonder- 
ful thing  as  some  had  imagined.  It  is  necessary,  of 
course,  to  be  even  with  foreigners.  One  must  hold 
one's  own  in  the  industrial  markets;  but,  in  spite  of 
these  considerations  (which  have  great  weight  with 
him),  he  is  not  anxious  to  prolong  his  children's 
school  life. 

And  now,  in  this  winter  of  John's  discontent,  the 
signs  of  a  new  spring-time  of  educational  work  have 
come.  It  is  true  that  these  signs  arrive  tardily,  and 
have  much  ado  to  appear  at  all  I  For  the  large 
classes,  the  tradition,  and  even  the  present  necessity 
of  mechanical  methods,  the  "requirements"  of  various 
bodies— all  hamper  the  teacher  who  desires  change. 
Yet,   here    and  there,    methods  are  changed,  and  the 


202  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

aim  is  a  new  one.  The  first  difficulty  is  the  great 
size  of  the  classes. 

The  most  experienced  and  fully  equipped  teachers 
declare  that  when  a  class  out-numbers  twenty-five  the 
quality,  and  even  the  nature  of  the  teaching  must 
change.  The  pupils  can  no  longer  be  dealt  with  as 
individuals,  and  come  into  close  personal  relations 
with  the  teacher.  Thus  vital  education  is  impossible. 
But  in  the  elementary  school  classes  of  fifty,  sixty, 
and  even  seventy  are  not  uncommon.  The  teacher 
keeps  order,  and  gives  a  certain  amount  of  instruction. 
But  she  cannot  aspire  to  do  the  best.  On  the  con- 
trary she  must  turn  away  from  the  best,  and  devote 
herself  to  becoming  an  expert  in  a  spurious  art — viz., 
the  ant  of  managing  large  classes. 

In  the  second  place,  the  teacher's  own  education 
has  been  a  hurried  one.  And  though  in  the  cases 
of  some,  natural  aptitude  and  ability  overcome  every 
hindrance,  yet  the  evil  effects  of  the  scramble  to  pass 
examinations  are  only  too  obvious. 

Lastly.  A  variety  of  discerning  persons  are  wanted 
on  educational  bodies.  Not  persons  who  can  merely 
acclaim  obvious  successes  of  which  "grant"  is  the 
warrant,  but  who  can  discern  nascent  talent,  and 
peculiar  aptitudes,  and  protect  and  stimulate  these. 
That   is   so   say  we  need — not  experts — but  a  leaven 


FORECAST  AND  RETROSPECT.  203 

of  authoritative  persons.  A  leaven  of  great  geographers, 
scientists,  artists,  whose  larger  vision  and  fuller 
knowledge  will  overcome  the  rigidity,  and  overlook 
the  barriers  of  mere  officialism. 

And  here  we  strike  against  a  wall.  Will  great  men 
serve?  "I  have  something  else  to  do,"  said  Napoleon, 
"than  to  think  how  children  are  to  learn  their  A  B  C." 
And  most  great  men  have  been  since  that  day  of  his 
opinion.  Of  course  there  have  been  exceptions — no- 
tably among  the  scientists.  Disciplined  by  long  and 
strenuous  labour,  accustomed  to  dispense  with  applause, 
these  have  offered  to  the  people,  and  especially  to  the 
teacher,  the  fruits  of  their  long  researches.  A  very 
few  have  not  even  disdained  to  stand  for  election  on  pub- 
lic bodies,  though  there  is  little  evidence  that  the  rate- 
payers appreciated  the  value  of  such  proffered  service. 

But  the  artist  stands  aloof.  The  painter,  writer,  musician 
— all  those,  in  short,  who  could  most  effectually  breathe 
the  breath  of  life  into  the  dry  bones  of  officialism  and 
clothe  and  vivify  the  skeleton  of  learning  have  fled 
the  polling-booth  and  committee-room.  Their  labours 
are  arduous  as  those  of  the  scientist,  though  of  a  very 
different  order,  and  brook  no  interruption.  Such  is 
the  fiat  not  merely  of  the  artist  himself,  but  of  the 
public  who  patronize  him. 

For  he  is  patronized  by  the  public.     Here  lies  the 


204  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

great  distinction  between  the  artist  and  men  of  sterner 
calling.  The  greatest  painter  or  novelist  of  this  age 
has  to  live  by  earning  the  approval  or  admiration 
of  the  public.  It  was  not  ever  thus;  but  it  is  thus 
now.  And  so,  as  Stevenson  (himself  a  consummate 
artist)  has  pointed  out,  there  is  to-day  an  undeniable 
parallel  between  the  greatest  artist  who  paints  what 
will  sell,  and  the  ballet-girl  who  dances  to  please 
instead  of  pleasing  to  dance.  The  artist  may  indeed 
render  services  whose  value  is  out  of  all  proportion 
to  the  wages  he  receives.  Yes ;  but  he  receives  wages 
which  no  one  else  receives — private  and  personal 
delights  in  the  work  itself.  And  these  are  mysteriously 
discounted,  though  the  public  hardly  suspects  their 
existence.  The  artist  is  "privileged".  The  artist  is 
also  patronized.  It  is  as  if  the  public  knew  he  had 
not  admitted  everything  even  to  himself— "At  least," 
says  Demos,  feeling  that  his  own  lot  is  hard,  and 
without  compensation,  "you  must  continue  to  please 
me.     You  are  there  on  purpose." 

So  if  to-morrow  a  great  biologist  or  astronomer 
said,  "I  will  go  on  a  School  Board,  and  spend  some 
portion  of  my  time  in  endeavouring  to  be  of  service 
to  those  who  are  engaged  in  teaching  elementary 
science  to  John  Smith,"  there  would  be  no  outcry 
raised,    and    the    more    intelligent    rate-payers   would 


FORECAST  AND  RETROSPECT.  205 

express  some  thankfulness.  But  if  an  artist  volunteered 
the  case  would  be  different. 

"  What  I  "  his  public  would  say — "  You  are  going  to 
waste  your  time  in  thinking  of  little  children  and  their 
daubs.  But  you  will  spoil  your  hand— your  wonderful 
hand  which  gives  us  so  much  pleasure.  Paint  one 
great  picture,  throw  yourself  into  your  own  work, 
but  do  not  run  the  risk  of  falsifying  your  talent  by 
touching  agenda  papers  and  coming  under  the  in- 
fluence of  routine." 

The  artist  is  only  too  ready  to  listen  to  this  warn- 
ing. Indeed  he  hardly  needs  it.  All  the  forces  of  his 
nature  call  and  claim  him  for  that  magic  task  which 
is  to  him  the  source  of  endless  trials  and  tests,  but 
also  of  ineffable  joys.  True  there  have  been  artists 
who  turned  away  in  spite  of  murmurings.  Ruskin  put 
away  his  pencil  and  took  up  his  pen  in  order  to 
write  "Unto  this  Last".  And  Tolstoi  ceased  from  the 
creation  of  glowing  romances  in  order  that  he  might 
write  on  ethics  and  Religion.  These  were  sharply 
reproved  by  their  patrons.  They  were  reproved  even 
by  their  friends.  The  noble  Tourgenieff  wrote  sorrow- 
fully to  Tolstoi,  "  Your  great  gift  came  from  the  source 
of  all  good  gifts.  Use  it — and  leave  other  things 
alone."  Here  indeed  was  a  remonstrance  which  might 
well  have  made  the  most  generous  falter . . . 


206  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

Tolstoi  remained  a  social  reformer  rather  than  an 
artist.  But  how  many  could  have  withstood  such 
pleading  as  this? 

Moreover,  the  majority  of  artists,  find  in  the  searching 
discipline  of  their  craft  the  justification  of  their  whole 
life,  the  price  of  their  success  as  well  as  of  their  joy ; 
They  hardly  need  the  counsel  of  their  patrons. 

"Do  not  spoil  your  hands.  Leave  the  rougher 
work  to  rougher  men  who  are  not  obliged  to  please." 

Yet  to  leave  all  the  rougher  work  to  the  rougher 
men  is  to  leave  to  them  also  the  highest  dignity, 
the  noblest  attributes  of  manhood.  The  average  man 
possesses  these.  England  expects  every  man  to  do 
his  duty  whether  on  a  School  Board  or  on  the  battle- 
field. And  England  is  seldom  disappointed.  Having 
taken  his  seat  on  any  administrative  body,  the  average 
Englishman,  often  conscious  of  limitations,  nevertheless 
quits  himself  bravely  (as  many  a  rural  district  can 
testify).  The  practical  ability  he  possesses  he  uses  in 
the  public  service.  He  manages  all  that  comes  within 
the  scope  of  his  business  capacity,  with  great  faithful- 
ness, often  with  great  wisdom  and  skill.  And  he 
does  this  fearlessly.  "Put  your  trust  in  my  shadow," 
said  the  bramble  to  the  trees  who  asked  him  to  be 
King  over  them.  A  right  royal  thing  to  say.  And 
this   is  what  many  a  rural  manager  says  as  he  takes 


FORECAST  AND  RETROSPECT.  207 

his  seat.  Moreover,  it  is  quite  clear  that  honest, 
business-like  men  who  have  too  much  honour  and 
disinterestedness  to  betray  a  spurious  modesty  will 
always  be  indispensable.  But  one  is  tempted  to  ask 
now  and  then,  "  Where  in  the  name  of  what  is  highest 
in  man  are  the  olive  and  fig  trees?" — and  in  answer 
there  comes  a  murmur  from  distant  and  mysterious 
places  : 

"  Shall  I  leave  my  fatness  ? .  . .  Shall  I  leave  my 
wine  which  cheereth  God  and  man  and  come  to  reign 
over  you?" 

Yes,  certainly  they  ought  to  leave  their  fatness  and 
their  wine  and  come  and  reign  over  us.  It  is  true  that 
great  art — or  expression,  can  spring  only  out  of  true 
life — that  mere  counsel  even  from  an  artist  will  never 
enable  us  to  feel,  much  less  to  express  any  noble  thing. 
But  the  spirit  that  urges  the  most  gifted  to  keep  in 
close  and  helpful  touch  with  the  lowliest  is  the  spirit 
which  is  the  source  of  all  lovely  and  sublime  expression. 
Moved  by  it,  and  living  in  obedience  to  it  no  one 
can  lose  his  highest  powers.  Long  ago  in  Italy  the 
greatest  artists  received  children  into  their  homes,  and 
taught  them  with  such  devotion  that  the  pupil  was 
named  not  by  his  father's  name,  but  by  his  teacher's. 
No  one  would  think  of  apprenticing  children  to  great 
artists  now  in  the  way  children  were  once  apprenticed 


208  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

to  the  masters.  One  would  as  soon  think  of  drawing 
beautiful  things  on  one's  kitchen  utensils, — that  too 
was  a  custom  long  ago.  No.  Art  and  pedagogy  have 
fled  too  far  apart.  But  some  indirect  guidance  and 
surveillance  of  elementary  education  by  those  best  fitted 
to  suggest  and  inspire  we  have  a  right  to  expect,  if, 
indeed,  the  spirit  of  which  all  beautiful  expression  is 
but  the  shadow  still  lives  and  disputes  in  the  artist-soul 
the  too  absolute  supremacy  of  the  patronizing  public. 

Meantime  in  spite  of  difficulties — large  classes, 
scrambling  preparation  for  examinations,  comparative 
dearth  of  sympathy,  comparative  banishment  from  the 
higher  sources  of  culture  and  counsel,  and  (worst  of 
all)  utter  indifference  and  even  opposition  in  many 
cases  on  the  part  of  parents — the  elementary  teacher 
must  go  forward. 

Every  child  comes  into  the  world  poor — so  poor 
that  he  has  no  appetites.  He  does  not  thirst  at  first 
even  for  his  natural  sustenance.  He  accepts  it,  then 
he  grows  by  it;  and,  at  last,  demands  it  ravenously. 
The  child  of  the  "hand,"  who  has  no  time  to  make 
spontaneous  offerings,  remains  very  poor  indeed. 
Slowly,  now,  we  begin  to  perceive  that  the  office  of 
the  primary  teacher,  as  of  the  mother,  is  to  offer 
good  nourishment,  and  to  create  a  desire  for  it. 


FORECAST  AND  RETROSPECT.  209 

Yes,  to  offer  food— that  is  the  first  duty  of  all  helpers. 
The  child  has  to  accept ;  afterwards,  the  results  of  his 
acceptance  will  proclaim  themselves ;  and,  indeed,  can- 
not be  prevented  from  doing  so.  No  one  can  foretell 
them  very  accurately,  nor  can  the  teachers  ever  be 
exempt  from  the  chance  of  exquisite  surprises.  Hund- 
reds of  years  ago  men  wondered  at  the  thoughts  that 
arose  in  their  own  hearts.  They  marvelled,  too,  at 
the  work  of  their  brothers,  and  we  are  still  marvelling 
at  it,  and  wondering  why  we  cannot  do  anything  like 
it.  But  the  well-nourished  child  also  astonishes  his 
teacher,  not  by  clever  feats,  or  mere  prowess  in  spelling, 
but  by  the  use  he  makes  of  all  that  he  receives. 

Not  that  we  can  learn  much  about  him  from  his 
achievements.  A  child  is  the  one  creature  in  the 
world  from  whom  one  cannot  get  finished  results 
— that  is  to  say,  results  which  mean  what  they  appear 
to  mean  and  nothing  more.  His  needs  and  desires 
are  a  great  deal  more  significant  than  his  powers. 
And  the  successful  primary  teacher  of  the  future  will 
be  she  who  sends  out,  not  youthful  prodigies,  but 
children  who  love  beauty,  who  desire  knowledge,  who 
need  fellowship,  who  thirst  for  innocent  pleasure; 
who,  in  short,  make  demands. 

"They  will  go  forth,"  you  cry.  Yes;  but  to  what 
kind   of  life?     Many    of  them,  perhaps  the  majority, 


210  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

will  be  engaged  in  mechanical  labour  to  their  lives' 
end — the  labour  that  gives  the  worker  few  opportunities 
and  no  choice.  Already  we  know  what  that  life  is. 
Once  set  in  motion,  the  iron  fingers  and  arms  will  do 
all  that  is  necessary.  There  is  little  need  of  skill. 
But  whirling  fans  and  cylinders  accept  no  excuses,  so 
obedience  and  watchfulness  are  terribly  enforced;  and 
any  higher  kind  of  morality  is  at  a  discount.  Is  it 
possible  that  the  human  faculties  and  desires,  whose 
growth  we  have  watched  in  the  children  with  joy,  can 
find  any  field  or  expression  in  such  a  life  ?  Is  it  not 
better  to  let  the  children  sleep  than  to  waken  them? 
They  will  adapt  themselves  to  their  world  at  last. 
But  why  should  we  make  them  desire  to  live  in 
another  ? 

The  answer  to  this  is:  that  we  must  reverence  life 
and  trust  in  it,  even  in  an  age  of  steel  and  machinery. 
If  to-day  machinery  seems  to  have  made  the  life  of 
many  laborious  and  barren,  that  is  only  because  the 
life  in  them  is  not  strong  enough  to  triumph  in  spite 
of  machinery.  Wherever  it  comes  Life  transforms. 
Our  land  was  once  a  wilderness.  It  was  changed  by 
human  hands  into  a  garden.  The  human  Builder  reared 
temples  whose  ruins  are  eloquent.  He  filled  the  waste 
with  silent  music. 

That  was  long  ago,  and  that  wilderness  was  God's. 


FORECAST  AND  RETROSPECT.  211 

We  have  now  a  wilderness  of  man's  invention,  a 
wilderness  which  is  in  itself  a  human  triumph;  and 
mechanical  labour  must  be  done  in  this  world  of  steel 
and  iron.  Yes;  that  is  one  necessity.  But  one  day 
it  may  be  necessary  that  a  larger  portion  of  the  life 
of  every  man  and  woman  may  be  rescued  from  such 
labour ;  and  this  second  necessity — the  fruit  of  a  more 
natural  and  vital  education — will  be  as  rigorous  as  the 
other  and  as  persistent.  Society  will  have  to  take 
account  of  it,  as  of  a  thing  from  which  it  cannot 
escape.  "This  wilderness  of  wheels  and  pulleys  must 
exist ;  but  it  must  not  overshadow  us,  empty  our  homes, 
submerge  our  lives,  hinder  our  development."  Such 
a  fiat  will  inevitably  go  forth  if  the  primary  school 
once  fairly  begins  to  nourish  the  life  in  its  children. 
For  this  life  will  find  expression  and  make  laws, 
destroying  the  old  impediments  by  its  own  vigorous 
growth.  The  old  does  not  belong  to  it,  but  must  be 
sloughed  off.  Where  the  past  generation  stood  sad 
and  helpless  it  may  arrive  peaceful,  because  invincible. 
Unabashed  by  the  mechanisms  of  man's  own  invention, 
the  people  may  draw  together  in  the  bonds  of  a  new 
fellowship;  the  homes  that  were  once  solitary  may  be 
glad,  and  the  man-made  wilderness  itself  rejoice  at  last 
and  blossom  as  the  rosel 


fir  fr$~£*  M**™*- 


